Facing the Shadows
by Adalanta
Summary: One of the Heroes is taken away for interrogation by the Gestapo and returns vastly changed. Can anyone help him overcome the lasting effects of his torture?
1. The Return

Facing the Shadows

by Adalanta

Summary: One of Hogan's Heroes is taken away for questioning by the Gestapo and returns vastly changed. Now the rest of the group must help him overcome the lasting effects of his torture. 

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. No disrespect is meant towards the characters or the actors who portrayed them.

Author's Note: The idea for this story has been in my mind for quite some time, but with my busy schedule, it has taken quite a while to get going. Whenever one of the Heroes was taken away during the show, he returned with little or no apparent damage. I always wondered what would happen if one of the group members returned physically and emotionally injured. This is will be a multi-chapter story. All feedback is appreciated. Email me at Adalanta14@yahoo.com or just take a second to let me know what you think with the review form here at fanfiction.net. 

Chapter 1 – The Return

Through a blanket of freezing rain in the hours before dawn, the military truck passed between the barbed wire gates of Stalag 13. Driving slowly, it pulled to a stop in front of the Kommandant's office. The passenger's side door opened, and out stepped a figure dressed completely in black from head to toe. The only bit of color on him was the red armband emblazoned with a black swastika that encircled his upper left bicep. 

The figure in black stepped purposefully to the door of the building, refusing to acknowledge the saluting corporal who hurriedly opened the door for the officer. The corporal breathed a sigh of relief when the man disappeared inside. 

A young blond woman looked up as the heavy wooden door opened and blew in both rain and an unknown man. The man marched up to her desk and said emotionlessly, "Captain Schmidt to see Colonel Klink."

Hilda blinked at his abruptness and only then recognized the man's rain flecked uniform. Standing up abruptly, she replied, "Yes, Captain. Let me tell him you are here. Just one moment, please." Hilda moved swiftly from her desk and opened the door to Klink's office before she even finished knocking. Moments later she returned to the relative security of her desk, message delivered. 

A second later, a tall, balding man rushed out of his office, nervously putting his monocle up to his eye. "Captain Schmidt, I can't tell you how pleased I am to welcome you to Stalag 13. The SS is always welcome here." He cleared his throat loudly. "How can I be of assistance? You do know that Stalag 13 is the only escape-proof prison in Germany. I have yet to loose a prisoner in all my-" 

"I am well aware of your record, Colonel." Schmidt interrupted coldly. "As is my superior, Major Hochstetter. I am here on his orders."

"Major Hochstetter?" Klink's voice jumped an octave higher. 

"Yes. I have something for you in my truck. I was ordered to deliver it only to you. Major Hochstetter thought you would know how to handle it. Come with me."

Klink barely had time to grab his cape as the Captain turned on his heel and walked back outside, Klink hurrying to catch up from behind. A blast of cold nearly took his breath away, and his monocle became quickly spotted with raindrops. He took it away from his eye, grumbling about the wretched weather and how the Captain was acting. _I get no respect and I outrank him! _Klink stood shivering ankle deep in mud, watching the Captain move around to the back of the truck. Schmidt lifted the flap and said something to the men inside. 

Immediately, another SS trooper jumped out of the back, but instead of coming over to Klink and presenting him with a file as he suspected, the trooper turned back towards the truck to help a second man with something. For a minute, Klink could not identify what they were doing. It looked as if they were dragging out a rolled up rug. _Now why would Hochstetter give me a new rug? I never thought that he liked me._ Then, a moment later, Klink stood frozen in horror. It was not a rug.

It was a man.

The man appeared to be unconscious; at least, he was not struggling. The two troopers dragged the man towards the Kommandant, his feet dragging in the mud leaving two twin furrows in the ground that quickly filled up with water. The man wore only a long-sleeve tattered khaki shirt and brown pants. Without a uniform jacket, it was impossible to identify which nation's Air Force he belonged to. The man's dark head lolled from side to side as he was moved. _Yes, definitely unconscious._ _I wonder who this man is and why Hochstetter brought him here_, Klink thought as the three men approached with Schmidt in the lead. 

Reaching Klink's side, the Gestapo Captain turned and gave the drenched prisoner a smile that sent shivers up and down Klink's spine. He recognized that smile. It was the smile of a cat that has caught a mouse and played with it until it stops amusing him. Schmidt gave a snort of laughter as he gave his attention back to Klink. "Major Hochstetter wants you to have him, although I do not know why. After what he's gone through, he is less than useless. I truly doubt that he will last the week out. If it was up to me, I would have executed him." Schmidt shook his head. "Still, I have my orders. The prisoner is yours, Kommandant. Do with him what you will. He is no longer my concern."

Klink understood the implication of those words. _I could have this man shot and the Captain would not care. In fact, I believe that he would be pleased._ He nodded his head, hiding his emotions from both his face and his voice. "I understand, Captain. I will take care of him."

"Very well." Schmidt went to leave but stopped. "I need to give you his papers. One moment." The black-clad man moved quickly back to the truck cab and removed a file. On his way back to Klink, a third man jumped out of the back of the truck and squelched over to the Captain carrying a bundle of cloth. He asked something to his commander to which the Captain replied, "Throw it over there next to him. Why did you even bother to bring it? He won't need it." Turning to the two men still holding the limp prisoner under his arms, he barked, "Put him down!" The guards roughly dropped the man sideways in the mud beside the bundle of cloth, which Klink now saw to be an American pilot's leather jacket and hat. He still could not see who the man was – the man's back was towards him.

"Kommandant Klink, the prisoner is all yours. Heil Hitler!" With a last salute, the Captain handed him the file and strode away, his three soldiers trailing behind him. Klink did not move until the truck was back outside the gate. He gave a sigh and turned to look at the man lying in the middle of the compound. "Whatever have you done to earn this treatment?" he muttered in puzzlement. 

Even though he was a thoroughly German officer, Klink immensely disliked the Gestapo and their method of "acquiring" information from prisoners. Not long ago, he had lost a prisoner of his own to the Gestapo and was told that he would never return. He still missed the man. Even though they were enemies, he had come to respect him. And besides, the camp just was not the same without the American around. He shook his head sadly and walked back to his door, anxiously to get away from the frigid rain. 

His pretty secretary glanced up as Klink entered his office. "Hilda, call Sgt. Schultz and have him take the prisoner outside to Barrack 2. They have a couple extra bunks."

"Right away, Kommandant." As Klink walked slowly to his office, he heard her on the phone carrying out his instructions. Once inside his office, he tossed the file on the desk and moved over to the table nearby to pour himself a glass of wine. He grimaced at the tart taste as he glared at the red liquid. _Ah, well. It is the best I can do right now with the war on._ He sat behind his desk once more. After drying his spotted monocle off, he picked up his glass and opened the file to learn about the unfortunate prisoner.

____________________________________

A moment later, Hilda heard something that sounded suspiciously like glass shattering coming from the Kommandant's office. 

The office door slammed open and Klink came running out of it, pale to the lips. "Kommandant?" Hilda asked, concerned, as the man rushed outside into the driving rain. He did not even stop to answer. 

As Klink ran down the steps, he saw from the corner of his eye Sgt. Schultz hurrying across the compound from the guardhouse. Heedless of the spectacle he was making, he fell to his knees behind the prisoner's back and reached a trembling hand to touch the man's shoulder and turn him over. As the man turned, Klink both prayed that it was really the man in the file and dreaded it. As the man rolled limply onto his back, Klink let out a terrified gasp.

"Colonel Hogan!" 

Just then Schultz reached his side, panting loudly. He stared at the scene before him. There on his knees in the mud was Colonel Klink holding a muddy, unconscious Colonel Hogan. "Colonel Hogan? Sir, what is this?!"

"Hurry, Schultz! Help me get him inside out of this wretched weather!" 

Together, they carefully picked up the silent man and carried him to Klink's office. Bursting once more through the door, they completely ignored Hilda's startled gasp and hurried into the Kommandant's office to place Hogan on the cot in the corner. Once their burden was settled, Klink shouted for his secretary. "Fraulein Hilda, call my doctor immediately! Tell him it is an emergency and he must come AT ONCE! Hurry!"

Turning back to Hogan, Klink stared down at the unconscious man who had not even uttered a moan despite all he had gone through. For a terrifying second, he was not even sure that Hogan was still breathing. Finally, he saw that the chest was moving slightly up and down. But not like a normal healthy man's should. 

Grabbing the wet towel that he didn't even remember asking Schultz to get, he began wiping off the mud and the jet-black hair that obscured Hogan's face. Then he finally took a good look at the prisoner and had to bite his lip from crying out. 

Numerous cuts and bruises marred Hogan's ashen, scruffy face. The left side of his face was a mess. A long welt slashed across the entire side, starting at the jaw, over the eye, and ending above the hairline. His entire cheek had been laid open and had yet to scab over. The stripe was raised up and oozed liquid. It was so inflamed that the redness spread over that half of his face. His left eye was also completely swollen shut. _It must have happened not long ago. _Klink clenched his jaw as a wave of anger flashed through him. _Whoever did this to him wanted to scar him permanently. If he lives…_Klink refused to follow through with that thought.

Laying the damp towel over the scarred side of Hogan's face, Klink glanced at Schultz before continuing the disheartening inspection. The big man's eyes were suspiciously damp as he stood unnaturally silent nearby. "Schultz, help me get his shirt off. We need to get him out of these soaked clothes before he catches pneumonia."

Schultz cleared his throat before replying, "Jawohl, Herr Kommandant." 

The two men unbuttoned the remains of Hogan's shirt and eased it open. The damage there was heartrending. Bruises covered his entire torso, which looked decided odd shaped. "Kommandant, I…I think his ribs are broken. Should we be moving him?" Schultz whispered.

"We have already moved once, not to mention his being dropped onto the ground by the Gestapo who brought him. He does not appear to be bleeding at the mouth, so I do not think his lungs are punctured. Perhaps, he is lucky in that regard." Klink sighed loudly. "We need to get him warm. We will have to chance it, but we must be very cautious."

Schultz gently held Hogan up as Klink pulled first one arm and then the other out of the khaki shirt. Klink tossed the sodden mess beside the door just before it opened, and Hilda hesitantly poked her head through. "Doctor Muller is on his way, sir." She paused. "Sir, who is that? What has happened?"

Klink suddenly remembered that Hogan had been a friend of Hilda's. It would not help them if Hilda became distraught from seeing Hogan like this. Klink decided instantly not to tell her who it was. "Fraulein Hilda, go to our guest quarters and see that they are prepared. Let us know the minute the doctor arrives."

"Yes, sir." Hilda still looked upset but turned to follow his instructions regardless. 

Klink sighed loudly once the door was closed. Then he returned to the task at hand. 

He glanced at Hogan's right arm and could not stop from uttering a harsh curse. A long burn covered the arm from a few inches above the wrist to the elbow. The skin was blood red with several blisters in the middle of the burn. The wrist itself was scratched raw. Klink checked Hogan's left wrist, only to find the same damage there. 

Tugging carefully, Schultz managed to pull off Hogan's soaked, muddy pants. His legs were a little better than the rest of his body, except for his left knee. It was grotesquely swollen and appeared disjointed. The black and blue flesh surrounding the knee was stretched tightly. Klink stood up and moved to look from a different angle from the foot of the cot. _Yes, something is definitely wrong. His leg is angled strangely. Is it just the knee or is the leg broken also?_ Klink shook his head. His question would be answered as soon as the doctor arrived. It would not be soon enough, in his opinion.

"Schultz, grab some blankets. I don't care from where. Just get them quickly." Klink moved around to kneel beside Hogan's head. He was extremely concerned about the man. Why had he not woken up yet? 

As he gingerly smoothed Hogan's hair back, he felt his hand become wet. Not really thinking about it (after all, Hogan had just been out in the pouring rain), he went to wipe the wetness from his hand but stopped abruptly. Red liquid stained his hand. Klink frowned, moved closer to Hogan's head, and cautiously felt again. This time he found it. On the left side of his head, the same side as the welt, was a large bloody lump, hidden almost completely by his dark hair. The Kommandant did not really have to think about how this mark got there. Someone had obviously pistol whipped Hogan recently. Extremely hard, too. He pulled a bandage from his desk drawer, wadded it up, and attached it as best he could to stop the bleeding.

Schultz returned with an armload of blankets that were quickly piled on the still figure lying on the cot. Once this was done, Klink turned to Schultz wearily. "We've done all we can. Now we must wait for the doctor." Klink prayed that the doctor would arrive soon. Hogan's skin had felt cold and clammy to the touch, and he feared shock had set in. _Where is that verdamnt doctor?_

____________________________________

Klink paced nervously in the guest quarter's living room, glancing every few steps over at the closed door of the bedroom where Dr. Muller was examining Colonel Hogan. Still. There had been no word from the doctor for over an hour on Hogan's condition, just requests for certain medical supplies that were held at the camp infirmary. Each time the door opened, Klink held his breath, hoping that the infernal waiting would be over. Each time he was disappointed. And each time, the doctor's face had been more solemn and worried than the time before. 

The last time the doctor had poked his head out, he had asked Klink for someone to assist him with a few medical procedures that were needed. Klink had hesitated, almost volunteering himself, but then remembered how queasy his stomach had felt just looking at Hogan and knew that he would never make it through the operation. Klink had sent in an older sergeant who had already been in battle on the western front, figuring that he would be the heartiest of his men. But the soldier had yet to leave the room, which Klink did not think was a good sign.

As if on cue, the door to the bedroom creaked open and the sergeant walked stiffly out, gray-faced, and blood covered, then bolted for the bathroom like a horse from the starting gate. Klink barely heard the door slam before the sound of retching began. Klink had to fight his own body's gag reflex at the liquidy sound behind him by taking deep breaths and focusing his entire attention on the bedroom door once more. 

Again, the door opened, complaining the whole time. _I must have someone oil those hinges,_ he thought absently. Doctor Muller stepped out, his white apron covered in blood as well, concentrating wholly on wiping his red stained hands on a damp cloth. It seemed like an eternity before the doctor finally glanced up and met Klink's eyes with a cold stare that seemed to peer into Klink's soul. 

"I never thought you to be a cruel man, Kommandant Klink. It appears that I was sorely mistaken."

Blinking in shock, it took a few seconds before Klink understood the meaning of those harsh words and their implication. "Doctor, surely you don't believe that I would do something like this to my prisoners?!" he blustered.

"No, not you personally. But you obviously allowed your men to have a field day with that man. You can not ask me to believe that what happened to the American was an accident, Colonel! I do not know what valuable information he could possibly have had here in the middle of a POW camp, but I hope it was worth it! For your own soul's sake. How can you live with yourself?!" The rage in the doctor's eyes was awesome to behold.

"Doctor, I swear to you, I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS!"

"No?"

"NO! Hogan was brought here by the Gestapo minutes before I alerted you. He was removed from this camp about a month ago by orders from Berlin. If I could have prevented his removal, I would have but my hands were tied." Klink gave a harsh laugh. "Even I, a Colonel in the German Army, can do nothing against the Gestapo. They are too powerful." He paused for a moment to swallow his disgust at his ineffectiveness. In a softer voice, laced heavily with concern, "How is Colonel Hogan, Doctor Muller?"

The doctor sighed deeply and the rage left his bright eyes. "If I can keep infection from setting in, he might live. It is too soon to tell. The damage…" Silence settled over the two men lost in thought. 

"I do not know what will happen, Colonel, but I know that I have done all that I can right now for him."

Klink hated to ask, but he needed to know the truth. "What…what injuries has he sustained? I saw some of them, but I am not a doctor. I cannot have seen them all. I need to know, doctor, to tell his fellow prisoners when they ask. As soon as they find out Colonel Hogan is here, they will be beating down the door to get to him! I will need to tell them how he is…to prepare them," he finished in a mere whisper.

"Very well, Kommandant. I will give you the complete list. I have taped the mark on his face. I almost stitched it, but no matter how fine my stitches are they would have left obvious marks. I believe that his face will heal fine eventually, perhaps with a thin scar, but I am not sure. If the tape does not seem to be working, I will be forced to stitch it. I am concerned more about his left eye. It is so swollen I cannot tell the extent of the damage inflicted. If he had his eye open when he was struck, it may have been damaged and impair his vision." Muller sighed deeply, then shrugged his shoulders. "Like I said, I do not know and probably will not know until the Colonel is awake and can tell me how his vision is.

"I was forced to make an incision on the left side of the Colonel's torso to repair the damage done to his rib cage. He had four broken ribs and three cracked." Here the doctor stopped and grimly smiled. "It is a miracle that his lungs were not punctured by the broken ribs. He would not have had a chance then. Regardless, I corrected his ribs and believe they will mend with time – a lot of time. He will be in serious pain just trying to breathe. I believe we shall have to keep him sedated for quite a while.

"His wrists are not that bad, just painfully raw. I covered them with an ointment that should speed the healing and wrapped them lightly. The burn on his right arm…that is going to be a problem. He has third degree burns in the middle of it, which is quite serious. There is not much I can do with it for now except wash it, spread some more ointment on it, and lay a light bandage over it. I am sure he will have a scar there for life. Burns are so much harder to treat than other wounds. The treatment is almost as painful as when it was actually burned in the first place. They are also easily infected.

"His left knee was out of joint and the thigh bone was broken directly above the kneecap. I had to pop the knee back into place, set the bone, and then immobilize the entire leg. He will not be walking for a while, few weeks at least. Walking – that in itself is a problem. Normally for an injury such as this, the patient can use crutches to get around fairly well. In Hogan's case, with his damaged ribs and burned arm, it is unlikely he will be able to use crutches. I must think on what I can do for him. 

"The Colonel's final injury was that large bump on his head. I assume you are the one who bandaged it, ja? You did a fine job, Colonel. The blow must have been tremendous for it caused a concussion. That is why he did not wake up when he was moved." Klink had a horribly vivid image of Hogan screaming in pain as Klink and Schultz picked him up off the ground. _Perhaps it was better for him to have taken that blow to the head and be unconscious through it all instead of screaming in pain anytime someone touches him. There is hardly an inch on his body that has not been injured._ Klink grimaced at his thoughts.

"To top off the rest of his injuries, Colonel Hogan is suffering from starvation, exposure, and shock, although I have stabilized him and believe he is almost over the shock. It was good that you called me when you did. Shock can kill a man as surely as a gunshot."

The doctor paused for a second, hesitating, indecisive about his next words. "Kommandant Klink, does Colonel Hogan have anyone in camp that he is friends with, that he trusts explicitly?"

"Colonel Hogan was quite popular with all the prisoners, doctor." Klink saw before him Hogan's grinning face, brown eyes shining with laughter at his men's antics. "However, there are a few ones that he was always seen with. Why do you ask?" he wondered aloud.

"Kommandant, Colonel Hogan has been through an extremely terrifying ordeal. I have worked on a few cases such as the Colonel's before – people who have been tortured by the Gestapo. They were severely traumatized by those events. They were never the same again." Doctor Muller nodded his head towards the bedroom door. "Colonel Hogan will never be as he was before. I am almost positive about that. However, if he has friends that will stand beside him to help him and comfort him, then he may regain some semblance of his former self."

Klink refused to believe it. "You do not know Colonel Hogan, doctor. If any man can make it through this, he can. He is one of the strongest men I have ever met."

"Even Hercules failed, Kommandant." Smiling, the doctor shook his head tiredly. "Still, I have been wrong before. Maybe I am wrong in this, ja? I pray so. Either way, Colonel Hogan is going to have a long road ahead before he is well."

______________________________________

Kommandant Klink stared out of his office window at the driving rain and the dark figure dressed in olive drabs hurry towards his office building. After much thought on the doctor's words, he had finally decided on the man that Colonel Hogan seemed to be most comfortable with. Although Klink did not know the man personally, Schultz had assured him that he was both loyal and calm, a necessary combination of attributes that would be needed for Colonel Hogan. The other guards he had questioned had agreed with his head Sergeant. Klink hoped that he was making the right decision.

Klink called for the man to come in as soon as he heard the knock.

"Sergeant Kinchloe, reporting as ordered, Kommandant."

Soft brown eyes stared at the Kommandant from a dark colored face beneath a mass of rain-flecked black hair. Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe, United States Air Force, had been a prisoner at Stalag 13 for nearly as long as Colonel Hogan had, arriving only a few days after him. Strangely enough, the gregarious Hogan had quickly befriended the tall silent black man; they were often to be seen leaning against the wooden planks that comprised Barracks 2, talking quietly to each other.

Klink knew that Hogan's removal by the Gestapo had weighed heavily on Kinchloe, more so than the rest of the prisoners, though his depression was nearly matched by the rest of the Hogan Quintet: the Frenchman LeBeau, the Englishman Newkirk, and the other American, young Carter. These five prisoners were nearly inseparable from all he had seen and heard despite their differences.

__

That is enough woolgathering, Wilhelm! Pay attention! Kinchloe was still standing at attention in front of Klink's desk. Klink gestured toward a nearby chair and said quietly, "Have a seat, Sgt. Kinchloe."

Kinch looking curiously at his Kommandant but sat down as he was ordered. "All right, sir."

Klink cleared his throat nervously, unsure how to continue this difficult discussion. _How do I tell someone that my own countrymen have tortured his friend, and that, right now, that friend is hovering somewhere between life and death?_ The pause stretched on longer than he would have liked and began to unnerve Kinch.

"Kommandant, if you don't mind my asking, is something wrong?" Kinch inquired quietly.

Klink's head snapped up from his clenched hands in astonishment. The American sergeant had unknowingly used the exact same words that Colonel Hogan himself had used. "Yes, something is very wrong, sergeant." He paused for a second to think about how to broach the subject. "I have discovered some news about Colonel Hogan that is quite…alarming."

Kinch's face turned into an emotionless mask, only his eyes betrayed his fear and anxiety. "Sir, is the Colonel dead?" he practically whispered.

"No. Not dead. But in very serious condition right now. It is unknown whether he will survive."

"I…appreciate you letting us know, Colonel. How did you find out?"

"Colonel Hogan was dropped off back here early this morning." Klink closed his eyes for the inevitable emotional outburst.

"WHAT?! Where is he? Why isn't he back in the barracks with the rest of the men?" 

__

That wasn't so bad. Thank goodness I called Kinchloe in here instead of LeBeau or Newkirk. They would go on forever! "Right now, Hogan is in staying in the guest quarters. He is seriously wounded, Sergeant, and cannot be moved."

"Colonel Klink, what's wrong with him? I must know. Please." Klink could not help looking into Kinchloe's deep eyes and seeing the anguish within. _He's thinking it's worse not to know than to be told for sure. That is not true in this case. Here, the injuries are worse than imaginable._ "Very well, Sergeant, but be forewarned – it is a long and brutal list.

"Among various cuts and bruises, Colonel Hogan has a dislocated knee, broken leg, four broken ribs, three cracked ribs, a burn on his arm, a concussion, and a…damaged face. Add to that starvation, exposure, and shock, and you have just about everything."

Kinch barely heard Klink's last sentence. His mind was fixed on what Klink had said about the Colonel's face. "What do you mean by a 'damaged face,' Colonel?" he asked, anger filling his voice for the first time.

"Colonel Hogan appears to have been struck by a cane or whip of some sort. It cut his left cheek open from chin to hairline. The doctor is unsure whether Hogan's eye sight has been damaged." Klink looked on with pity as the man before him swallowed convulsively. It was a full minute before he could speak again.

"Colonel Klink, can I see him? I have to tell the other guys first, but I would like to sit with him if I could. I know that he would do the same for me."

"The doctor has suggested that you meet with him whenever you go to see Hogan. He needs to discuss his condition with you, explain things a little more. Doctor Muller had to run to his office in town to pick up a few supplies that we did not have here. He should return within the hour. You can see Hogan then. That is all."

Klink watched with sorrowful eyes as Kinchloe turned to leave his office, shoulders stooped. He had considered informing the sergeant about Hogan's mental state, but could not find it in himself to deliver the additional blow after everything that had been said. He was sure that Muller would explain the situation.

____________________________________

Kinch eased slowly into the darkened room, feeling the comforting presence of the doctor right behind him. Although the he had already told the tech sergeant he needed to check up on his patient, Kinch was not altogether sure whether he was there more for himself or Colonel Hogan. From his disturbing talk with the doctor, Muller appeared to be a competent individual, more than qualified to handle his friend's case. Plus, the fact that the doctor seemed to actually care whether the Colonel survived was an overwhelming bonus. Kinch would never forget the discussion that had preceded this first visit with Hogan. Those words would haunt him for quite some time.

As Kinch neared the occupied bed and the only source of light in the entire room, a single lamp, his friend's injuries became more obvious. Kinch was so shocked that he could not contain a faint cry of horror at the sight of his commander lying upon the bed, motionless and covered in bandages. 

Sitting in the chair strategically positioned close to the Colonel's right hand, he studied the preternaturally still man with sharp brown eyes, comparing him to the man that had been taken away by the Gestapo almost a month ago. He could still remember the look of intensity in Hogan's eyes – _Keep up the operation. Don't give up! _That was before Major Hochstetter had barged in with his goons and… His mind shied away from the helpless feeling that painful memory evoked.

The black sergeant felt his heart contract as he contemplated his wounded friend. Hogan appeared gaunt and tremendously pale beneath the heavy beard that covered the right side of his face. Dark blue circles underlined his eyes, blending in seamlessly with the numerous purple and black bruises. His face was etched with new lines of agony and exhaustion. As a whole, he seemed to have aged at least ten years.

Turning his attention to the rest of the Colonel, he quickly noticed the same thing. Beneath the terrible wounds, Hogan appeared starved, his natural leanness trimmed away to gauntness. _And that IV solution isn't going to help him put on any weight either._

Leaning his tall frame back against the uncomfortable, straight-backed, wooded chair, Kinch did the only thing he could at the moment. He waited. Waited for the Colonel to open his eyes. Waited to reassure his friend that he was safe back among his own kind, away from the Gestapo. And so he sat in the dim light and waited uneasily for that time. 


	2. Worse Than Imagined

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All previous disclaimers still apply. I'm not making any profit from this story, except peace of mind from finally writing it. 

Author's Note: Thank you to all of you who took the time to read the first chapter and give me such inspiring reviews. I already have five and a half chapters finished, but I am slowly and carefully proofreading them before I post them (although I'm sure I missed something). I hope to have the third chapter up sometime this weekend. Oh, I'm going to try and save this in HTML format. If it turns out messed up, I'll upload the Word formatted one ASAP.

Chapter Two – Worse Than Imagined

Pain. It hurt to breathe. Every breath was an effort, agonizing. The only sensation that he could feel was ceaseless pain. Through his torment-fogged mind, he tried to pull away from the knives that the Gestapo kept stabbing him in the chest with. But he couldn't move. Deliriously, he moved his arm to stop the pain, but the stubborn appendage wouldn't obey him! _I'm trapped! Chained…can't move! It hurts so bad! Oh, God, help me, please!_ He tried again to move his arms, but they continued their rebellion.

He tried to open his eyes, to see around him so he could at least know where the guards were that were holding him. He could then know what blows were coming and be ready for them, as ready as he could be. However, he only succeeded in opening one eye, the right one, he thought, although he wasn't sure. And when he opened his eyes, he saw a world spinning about, tilted, with jagged edges and vague shadowy figures. He shook his head slightly, hoping to clear his crazy vision, but pain exploded in his skull, casting a red haze on everything. _Great. Instead of black and gray, now everything is red. _He could not stop the pitiful moan that escaped his lips, which in turn made him scream in agony, the pain unbearable from moving the left side of his face. 

A cool hand lightly touched his face on the side that didn't hurt. Startled, he tried to roll away, but once again his body would not respond. So locked away in his painful nightmarish world, he did not realize that the hand was not trying to hurt him – it was trying to comfort him. But after the past few weeks, every touch brought pain, either real or imagined.

The next thing he knew, a calm, familiar voice was speaking to him, calling out a name over and over. _Am I Colonel Hogan?_ He thought groggily. _Yes. Yes, I think I am. It does sound familiar. Who is that? Do I know him? Wait a minute…Kinch!_ For a moment, the calm voice soothed him, and he began to drift to sleep. That was when he heard the voices speaking in German behind the calm one. Panic flooded his soul as a horrifying thought crossed his mind. W_hat is Kinch doing here? Does the Gestapo have him, too? _His moans became louder, as his mind filled with panic, almost crazed. _No! No, not Kinch, too! Please, not him! I've already lost one person, I can't loose another! _ "Run." He tried to whisper but only a weak groan came out. "Leave me. Go away." Why couldn't they hear him? "Listen to me!" But the only sounds that came out were agonized groans and moans. 

The voices were coming closer, and closer. Out of the jagged void, another hand reached out and touched his arm, pinning it to the wall. He struggled pathetically to break away, but found his struggles had caused a new problem, besides the never-ending pain that both filled and surrounded him. _Can't…breathe…Help…me…_He felt himself choking and bright sparks of light flashed before his closed eyes. Something sharp pricked his arm and a brief burning sensation flared. Then everything fell into darkness.

*************************************

Sitting frozen in his seat next to the bed, Kinch remained staring at the unconscious body of his friend for some minutes after Hogan fell back into his drugged slumber. It wasn't until he blinked that he felt the wetness on his cheeks and realized they were tears. 

He had fallen asleep in the chair by the bed, exhausted by the day's events and the terrible knowledge of his friend's serious condition. The first signal he'd had of Hogan's return to consciousness was the pain-filled moan that emerged from the heavily bandaged figure. Then, he'd seen one eye open, unfocused, the pupil dilated farther than he had ever seen in his life. 

He would never forget the unearthly scream that had emanated from Hogan, one that sent chills running up his spine and made his blood run cold. Hogan's body seemed to convulse and then lay utterly still. The deathly silence was broken as Hogan began to moan and shiver with pain. Kinch could only stare in horror, the shock freezing him in place.

The door slammed open, and Doctor Muller raced over to the bed, next to Kinch.

"What's going on?" Kinch begged, worry for his friend sending his heart pounding furiously.

"He's out of his mind with pain! If we don't get him sedated soon, he could go back 

in to shock. We could loose him. I've got to get some more morphine – it's in my car. Try to calm him down! I'll be right back!" Muller flew back out of the room, praying for speed and time they did not have.

Kinch had been nearly frantic, and tried to give comfort to his friend the only way he could think of in that terrible moment – he reached out to touch his face. Unfortunately, his sleep-deprived mind had totally forgotten what the Doctor had told him so many hours ago: "Do not touch him!"

Whenever Kinch had been sick as a child, his mother would lay a cool hand on his brow and he would automatically feel better. It made everything right in the world. It was the ultimate comforting gesture. 

__

Stupid! How could I have been that dumb? I just made it worse! Instead of relaxing, Hogan had shied away from his touch like a wild hare. But this rabbit was too injured to run. 

Realizing his mistake, Kinch tried to make up for it the best he could. He talked to him. Tried to calm him down. And it had seemed to be working. Until…

Suddenly, Hogan had become frantic. Kinch felt sure he was trying to say something but nothing was coming out in words, only sounds. The pitiful sounds became more insistent, louder. Like a trapped animal trying to get away from the hunter, the knowledge of its imminent death taking up so much of its mind that no room was left for logical thinking. And then the situation grew even worse. 

Colonel Hogan stopped breathing.

One second he was moaning loudly, the next… The tortured gasps tore at Kinch's heart, and literally froze him in place. He could do nothing but watch his friend, his brother, slowly suffocate and die. 

Then, a miracle happened.

Muller appeared beside him and pushed Kinch out of the way. Grabbing Hogan's shaking right arm, he quickly plunged a morphine hypo into the pale arm and injected the pain-killing fluid. Finally, the frantic gasping slowed as the figure on the bed relaxed bonelessly against the pillows supporting him.

Now, thinking back to what had happened, Kinch sighed deeply and scrubbed his damp face with hands that still trembled. _This isn't real_, he told himself. _It CAN'T be happening! This is just some horrific nightmare and I need to wake up! NOW!_

But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself that this wasn't real, he could not deny the sight that met his eyes. No amount of pleading or frantic wishing could make this problem go away. 

__

How could this happen? 

He racked his mind once again, trying to figure out what had gone wrong. The Gestapo's sudden raid had caught them completely unaware. They had been in the middle of a poker game, laughing loudly at some stupid remark of Carter's, when the door to the barracks had been flung open, slamming harshly against the wall. The black clothed men had entered and had grabbed the Colonel roughly by the arms, twisting them painfully behind his back. The prisoners had protested loudly but their protests were answered only with raised rifle barrels pointed right at their hearts. There was nothing they could do but watch helplessly as their Commander was jerked roughly away to the waiting Gestapo truck.

Looking back now, Kinch was still uncertain how Hogan had been found out. But he wasn't the only one to be taken at that time. A few hours later, once he was reasonably sure it was safe to use the radio, he'd received word from one of their contacts that the Gestapo had swept the area, rounding up not only suspected Underground members, but also any person who had been "visited" by the Gestapo in the past. However, as far as Kinch knew, Colonel Hogan had been the only prisoner of war to be hauled away.

He lowered his hands and stared hard at the bandage covered figure before him, searching in vain for the man who had disappeared only a month before. He could not find him. "I'm so sorry, Colonel," he murmured hoarsely, emotion making his normally smooth voice rough. "We failed you. But we tried, I swear we tried our hardest!" 

They had made three attempts to rescue him, but nothing had worked. The attempts had been useless – and dangerous, especially the last one. Newkirk still had a rather nasty looking lump on the back of his head – a lasting reminder of the near fatal truck accident he'd been involved in while trying to get away from the Gestapo. Kinch shuddered, the sight of Carter frantically pulling Newkirk's limp, bloody body from the mangled remains of the truck coming vividly to mind. That had been too close. Only then did he realize that he was going to be responsible for someone else's death if he didn't stop the rescue attempts. _We've already lost one man_, he argued angrily with himself. _Colonel Hogan couldn't live with himself if someone died while rescuing him. Heck, who am I kidding? I couldn't live with it! _

But now that he'd seen what they had done to Colonel Hogan…

He could have – should have – done more. But it was too late. He had to deal with the present, not second-guess the past.

"What did they do to you, Colonel?" he moaned. His commanding officer, the man who never cried, never gave up, no matter how bad the situation …what had the Gestapo done to him to make him this way? Hogan had shied away from his touch. Kinch still couldn't believe it, even though he had seen it with his own eyes. 

His closest friend was terrified of him.

The bedroom door opened as Dr. Muller slipped inside clutching his medical bag. After shrugging off his long, black coat and removing his black, felt hat, he approached the bed. As the elderly doctor studied the unconscious man, Kinch saw that his face was filled with worry lines, his blue eyes sharp with concern. The black sergeant felt a rush of gratitude for the experienced doctor for the excellent care he had given the Colonel. His thoughts were interrupted when the doctor shifted his gaze to meet Kinch's with a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry, Sergeant, you must leave. I need to change the Colonel's bandages while he is asleep."

"No." Kinch shook his dark head emphatically, his eyes never leaving Hogan's still form. "No, I'm not leaving."

"Now listen, young man, I understand that you are very…what is the word?…devoted?…to this man." He reached up absently to brush back an errant lock of snow white hair from his forehead. "Ich verstehe…I understand how you feel, but you should not be in here. It is not a pleasant task, even for me."

"Look, Doctor, I've been in battle and seen things that are not 'pleasant.' I've seen more things than you can imagine." He raised his eyes to the man standing at his side and continued with a strong, commanding voice. "Let me stay. Please. I can help you."

Kinch held his breath as he waited for the doctor to make up his mind. While he did have experience as an emergency medic and could ably assist the German, his main reason for staying was quite different.

Fear.

He had the overwhelming, almost paralyzing, fear that if he left the Colonel's side, he might never see him again – alive. Oh, he trusted the doctor – he'd done a good job so far – but he felt as if he had to stay. What he wasn't sure about was whether he needed to stay for Hogan…or himself.

"Very well. You may stay and assist. But if you feel sick, you must remove yourself immediately. I have enough to clean up without anything new."

Dr. Muller reached for his bag and began pulling out vials and fresh bandages. "Sergeant," he ordered, "Turn down the blankets."

The two men set to work. The doctor checked Hogan's left leg briefly, nodding in satisfaction over the white cast that encased the injured appendage, holding it secure.

Next, he carefully cut the stained bandage that surrounded the Colonel's chest. A long, stitched incision held the sliced parts of his bruised chest together on the left side; although the bloody slit looked ghastly, it had been necessary to repair the extensive damage done to the patient's ribcage, which had been nearly crushed. Despite the small, immaculate stitches, clear fluid continued to ooze from the wound.

Kinch swallowed hard at the sight of his friend's damaged torso. _I can't believe he can still breathe,_ he thought numbly. _Each breath must be agony._

After helping to gently sponge the incision with warm, soapy water and rebandage it, a process that took several minutes, Kinch had managed to regain a bit of his equilibrium. Up to now, the doctor appeared to be satisfied with Hogan's condition, viewing all his livid injuries through an impassive mask. But Kinch noticed that he took just a second's break before continuing his examination. When he resumed work, he moved towards the patient's head.

Kinch leaned forward slightly, anxious to see for himself the extent of the damage as the elderly physician carefully removed the thick bandage from the left side of his friend's face.

Upon seeing the ravaged visage, he blinked in shock, thinking – no, wishing – that he what he was seeing was not real. It was worse than he had imagined.

The bloody red welt slashed vertically the entire length of Hogan's face, from scalp to chin. The cheek had been laid open to the bone, and a scab had yet to form. The two ends of his cheek were still an eighth – to a quarter – of an inch apart.

Dr. Muller pursed his lips, debating, and then shook his head. "No, this is not working. The cut should have begun to scab over by now. The tape is not enough. I will have to stitch it closed." He finished his diagnosis in a worn voice.

"But…won't that scar him more than the tape?" Kinch cringed inwardly. Colonel Hogan had always been proud of his handsome looks. And now to rob him of that…And to force him to remember his torture every time he looked in the mirror…

"Would you rather he died a handsome man or live as a slightly scarred one?" The tech sergeant winced at the doctor's harsh, but truthful, words. Muller took a deep breath, visibly trying to calm himself. He did not appear pleased about what he was forced to do.

"I apologize, Sergeant Kinchloe. But for every minute this cut stays open, the chances for infection increase drastically. I did not want to use stitches but to be honest…the man who did this wanted to mark him permanently. In this he has already succeeded. Colonel Hogan will have a scar whether I use tape or stitches. It does not matter."

Kinchloe closed his eyes in defeat and replied in a tired voice. "Alright. What do you need me to do?"

The operation passed in a blur. Nothing seemed quite real. He passed the doctor the tools as he requested them and did what he was told. Thankfully, throughout the entire ordeal, his commander had not even twitched, still heavily under the morphine's hold. Within twenty grueling minutes, the cut was stitched, cleaned, disinfected, and rebandaged.

Finally, the two men turned to the last part of the exam, and without being discussed, both mutually understood that this was the worst part – Hogan's burned right forearm. Doctor Muller unwrapped the arm slowly, painstakingly pulling back layer after layer of gauze. After a few layers, the bandage stuck, too crusted to be pulled cleanly away.

Kinch watched as the physician carefully soaked the stubborn gauze until it released its hold on the burn. It came off reluctantly, like a lover separating from his beloved. At last, the lower bandage was pulled away revealing the hideous burn beneath.

Kinch gagged convulsively and stepped away, trying to quell his nausea before he became sick. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gulped the air greedily like a drowning swimmer – only the air did not smell as sweet. The scent of burned flesh, blood, and disinfectant infested the air inside the room, creating a smell like that of a hospital infirmary.

He'd just about settled his stomach when a low moan cut through the room, causing Kinch to jerk his head towards the bed only a few feet away.

The doctor looked up from examining the arm, his lined face filled with concern. "I need some help over here, Sergeant," he called urgently.

Kinch moved over closer and saw that the older man had just begun to clean the terrible burn. Nearly jumping as Hogan moaned again, he met Muller's blue eyes with alarm. "I thought you said he'd stay out! He's waking up! What's going on?"

"He is not regaining consciousness quite yet, but he is also no longer so deeply unconscious that he can not feel the pain."

"Can't you give him another shot?"

"No. I just gave him one an hour or so ago. If I give him another this soon, his heart could slow too much and he could die.

Kinch swallowed, a strangely difficult task, but nodded. "What do I do? You're gonna finish cleaning it, aren't you?"

The elderly physician glanced down for a second, then met Kinch's gaze without wavering. "I need to finish this right now, Sergeant. If I delay, it could easily become infected and that is not something that I believe the Colonel can handle." He stopped and sighed deeply. "I need your help with this, but you must understand that this will be difficult to observe. If you do not think you can handle it, you need to tell me now and I will get someone else to assist."

The black sergeant hesitated, uncertain whether he could truly bare to see his close friend in such pain. "If you have to find someone else to help, it might take a while. He would be even more conscious then, and the pain would be worse, right?"

"Yes," the doctor replied.

"If it's gotta be done, then I can do it. What do you need me to do?" he asked again.

"Stay on that side and talk to him. Perhaps your voice will help calm him down. If he begins to move, you'll have to hold him down by his shoulders – carefully but firmly.

"Got it." The black man leaned over his friend as the doctor resumed his work and began to whisper quietly to him, soft soothing words that his friend would hopefully latch on to for comfort, a necessary distraction. 

It didn't work. 

The next time Muller touched the burn, Hogan let out a sharp cry of pain. His body twitched and jerked as wave after wave of searing pain swept through his body.

"Hold him down! He's going to injure himself if he keeps moving!"

The next few minutes took on nightmarish form. Unable to calm his friend, he was forced to hold his writhing body down upon the bed, vaguely thinking how strong the Colonel seemed despite being so seriously wounded. His pain-filled moans morphed into shrill cries of agony. The walls reverberated with his screams, Kinch's cries of "Hurry, Doc, hurry!" and the doctor's reply of "Almost done! Just another minute!"

Finally, the doctor shouted, "I'm done," and stepped away from Hogan's side, releasing his patient's right arm, now swathed in pristine bandages from wrist to elbow. Kinch slowly eased his hold upon his friend's shoulders as Hogan's cries softened into whimpers of pain and then stopped all together. A couple of minutes later, his rapid breathing had slowed down almost to normal, and he fell back into the drug's embrace, ashen face covered in sweat from his exertions. 

Kinch looked over at Dr. Muller, noting the man's pale face and visibly trembling hands. The doctor caught his scrutiny and spoke softly as he gestured for the sergeant to take a seat. "I'm sorry you had to see that, Sergeant, but I am also very glad that you were here. I could not have finished that alone." He paused. "You are a brave man. Not many men could have done what you did just now."

Silence engulfed the small room. The two men were too exhausted to do anything else but sit side by side and stare at the still form on the bed. The silence was soothing, not filled with apprehension as those previously had been. Each man had gained a solid respect for the other, forged in the face of an arduous task. 

It was the doctor who broke the soothing silence. "I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Sergeant Kinchloe, but I believe you need to know. I discussed with you earlier the possibility of psychological damage to the mind of Colonel Hogan. From what I witnessed earlier, I now believe that possibility to be a certainty."

"I thought so. The way he reacted to my touch…he pulled away from me." Kinch sat hunched over, leaning his elbows on his knees, staring at his tightly clasped hands. "They broke him."

He continued in a strained voice, his heart as bruised as his battered friend's body. "I don't know what to do – how do I help him? There's only so much I can do. I can help him physically…but mentally? I don't know where to start."

"I have seen this before, in my own countrymen," the doctor answered quietly. "I promise I will help you as much as I can, but I cannot guarantee anything. Besides, I am a German, and part of the same country as the ones who tortured Colonel Hogan. He may reject any help I try to give. But I will try." The elderly man laid a comforting hand on Kinch's shoulder. "And I know you will, as well. Perhaps together, we can help your commander through this." 


	3. Out of Time

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own any of these characters nor am I profiting from this piece of fiction. My sincere, heartfelt thanks go to the wonderful actors who portrayed them and who have provided many hours of great entertainment. Without you, this story would not be possible.

Author's Note: I finished this chapter a little sooner than I thought I would. I'll probably have the next chapter up in a week or so. 

Chapter Three – Out of Time

Two weeks later…

The weather outside the barracks was beautiful. In fact, most of the prisoners of Stalag 13 couldn't remember a more perfect day since they had begun their involuntary "stay" at the camp. The sun was shining, occasionally eclipsed by the cotton-like clouds that sprinkled the cerulean sky. A soft breeze blew between the barracks, bringing the crisp, earthen smell of spring. The perfect day, especially in early March in war-torn Germany. The men of the Allied Forces should have been relaxed. Their spirits refreshed. Their hopes renewed. 

But they were not. 

Today marked the day that Colonel Hogan would return to Barracks 2. Back to his old room, his old friends, his old life. 

Perhaps…back to his old self.

Kinch wearily shook his dark head. He knew he was being too hopeful but he could not help himself. He must believe. If the men saw that he still believed, then they would continue to have hope. And without hope they were all lost. And none more so than the Colonel.

As he slowly ambled across the dirt towards the camp's guest quarters, he hoped that Hogan would be better, even just a tad bit. The men wanted – no, needed – their commander back. Morale had sunken lower than a snake slithering through their hidden tunnel. Kinch nodded at the guard posted unnecessarily by the front door. He could feel the man's piteous gaze linger between his shoulder blades as he stepped through the door, and it made him sick. _I can just imagine what's going through his mind. 'There goes that crazy black man off to visit his crazy Colonel again.' _Kinch didn't know what was worse – knowing what the guard was thinking or almost believing it himself. 

As his dark hand turned the bedroom doorknob, he muttered a quick prayer to God that his friend would show some sign of life today. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

And once again, his prayer was denied.

Colonel Hogan lay unmoving on the soft bed, not even blinking as he entered the room. Kinch felt his shoulders slump, their weight becoming even heavier than before. He vaguely remembered his reassurances to the men. 'Don't worry, he'll come around. Just give him time.' _Well, Colonel, we've run out of time. _

Sitting in his usual seat positioned next to Hogan's right hand, Kinch searched the Colonel's open eye and shivered. Still unfocused, unseeing. Hogan's entire face was blank. His friend seemed…hollow, empty…like the life had been sucked out of him. Kinch thought back to what Doctor Muller had mentioned to him just yesterday. 

"Think of Colonel Hogan as a house, Sgt. Kinchloe. Someone is home, just not answering the door," the doctor said softly, staring at Hogan from across the room. "He is so traumatized – perhaps he cannot even find the door right now."

"Will he ever?" Kinch had swallowed, hating himself for voicing his traitorous thoughts. But it had been so long… "You are sure – absolutely positive – that the blow to his head did not damage his mind in some way?" He had held his breath waiting for the answer.

"I know that you do not trust me completely, Sgt." Muller waved his hand to halt Kinch's protest, then continued. "Yes, I know. I promise, Colonel Hogan's mind is not physically damaged in any way. Physically. Mentally…he has a rough road ahead of him, worse than his physical healing." He finally had looked Kinch straight in the eye, the blue eyes shadowed and sad. "You see, Sgt., I can set a broken leg or stitch a bullet hole. I once even attached a severed hand. But what I cannot do, is mend a shattered spirit or salve a battered soul. That is beyond my ability." He shook his head and looked down at his long fingers, cursing himself inside that he could not do more. "I have told you what to expect from my previous cases. But to be perfectly honest…I do not believe I have seen a case worse than this."

Kinch had opened his mouth to say something – anything – but could not find his voice. The doctor smiled slightly. "The most important thing you can do right now is what you have been doing. Talk to him. Let him know that you are there. Support him. Hopefully, he will come around. He just needs time."

Disheartened from watching over his catatonic friend, Kinch covered his face with his hands. He had run out of time. He'd hoped to see some form of improvement in his friend before he was forced to return him to the barracks, surrounded by inquisitive, though well-meaning, people. 

Standing up, he straightened his shoulders and went to tell the guard that the Colonel was ready to be moved.

_____________________________________

That night as Kinch lay in his bunk beneath Carter, he admitted that his fears were right. The men's hope had been nearly destroyed after seeing what shape their commander was in. 

The transfer from the guest quarters to Barracks 2 had gone well. The guards carrying the stretcher had been careful, cautious not to jolt their passenger. Kinch was still amazed by the gentleness he had witnessed in the guards' treatment of Hogan. Who would have thought it? Thinking back to that black month without the Colonel, Kinch realized that even the guards seemed to miss him. The old stalag just was not the same without the cheerful Colonel Hogan.

However gentle the guards had been, the move had still hurt the Colonel. Kinch swore he could still hear the painful moans that had escaped Hogan's pinched lips. He had been forced to give him a shot of morphine to ease his agony and allow him to sleep in peace. 

The men had stared in shock at the man who had once been their pillar of strength. Colonel Hogan had been the iron man – always strong, heedless of the danger he seemed to thrive upon. After all, Hogan had once been shot in the leg one night at the start of a mission and had still managed to lead the rest of the mission without a whimper of pain. Surely, this moaning, bandaged man could not be the same man! But it was…and the men could no longer deny it.

Kinch rolled over onto his back but could not sleep. Those damned moans kept echoing in his head. _I swear I can still hear it_, he thought sleepily. Then he blinked, listening hard in the darkness, staring at the closed door joining the Colonel's private room and the main room of the chilly barracks. _I'm not imagining it. That's the Colonel!_

He had just set his feet on the cold floor when a scream pierced the stillness of the night. Sprinting to the door, he vaguely saw Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau roll out of their bunks, moving right behind him. He burst through the door, flipped on the light, and nearly cried himself at the sight.

Hogan was thrashing in his bed, fighting frantically against the demons of his nightmare. His arms swung wildly through the night air, striking the mattress, the bunk frame, the wall. He had shoved his sweat soaked, shivering body as far against the wall as possible but still pressed backwards. His head moved restlessly on the mattress, a look of horror etched on his glistening face. 

But no matter how horrible he looked, the sounds he was making pierced the hearts of the gathering men. Half-formed pleas were torn from his throat, punctuated by sharp cries of agony. The sounds rooted the men in place.

Kinch wanted to help but was frozen in horror. Of all the men present, Carter was the first to break free from the shocked paralysis and run over to the thrashing man. He ducked beneath the flailing arms and touched Hogan's shoulder to try and wake him up.

The plan backfired. Hogan let out another piercing scream as he shuddered and began hyperventilating, chest heaving, ashen face turning bright red from lack of oxygen. 

"Newkirk, get the morphine! On the desk!" Kinch shouted. Hogan suddenly began convulsing, his body jerking uncontrollably on the mattress. "Carter, LeBeau, grab him and hold him down! Don't let him fall off!" Newkirk handed him the morphine with a shaking hand. "Okay, hold that arm down. No, not that one! The other one, his left! That's it, hold it steady. Steady. Hold him still or he'll break the needle! C'mon, baby, c'mon. That's it…that's it… there!" Kinch sighed in relief as the contents of the needle were injected into Hogan's body.

Hogan stopped convulsing and began to breathe again, the redness slowly leaving his face. Within a minute or so, he was still except for his head, still moving restlessly on the pillow that LeBeau had placed beneath it. "No…no, please…I don't know…stop…I'm not…no…Kristal…don't go…don't…leave…me…please." Hogan's heartbreaking muttering finally faded away as he fell into a drugged sleep.

For a few seconds, no one could move. They were just too drained. At last, Kinch straightened up from his crouch on the floor beside Hogan. He pulled the thin gray blanket up to the Colonel's chest, then offered a shaky hand to Newkirk, kneeling beside him. Carter slowly began to pick himself up off the floor, but LeBeau remained on the ground. Only then did Kinch realize that the diminutive Frenchman was holding Colonel Hogan's left hand tightly, knuckles stark white. "Mon dieu, my friend," he breathed. "What has happened to you?!"

Kinch walked over and placed a comforting hand on LeBeau's shoulder. "C'mon, LeBeau. Come sit down." He pulled the shaky man to his feet and guided him firmly over to the Colonel's chair at his desk. Newkirk was already sitting on the desk. And Carter…

Kinch looked around for Carter and spotted him standing in the corner furthest from Hogan, face turned away. "Carter," he called softly as he made his way over to the young man. "Carter, are you alright?"

Carter turned around to face the sergeant, who only then noticed the tears silently coursing down his cheeks. Kinch was dumbfounded – he had never seen Carter cry. "Ah-all I did was ta-touch him. L-look what ha-happened! I-I almost k-killed him!" the young man wept, sobs shaking his thin frame. 

Kinch put an arm around his shuddering friend, dismayed at the accusations Carter was heaping upon himself. "No, Andrew. It's not your fault. Any of us would have done the same thing if we had gotten there first. Don't worry. No one blames you."

"Damn right. It's those bloody Gestapo that did this to 'im." Newkirk put in menacingly from atop the desk. 

"Oui. It was not you, Carter." LeBeau chimed in.

"That's right. Now come over here and calm down. We need to figure out what to do to help the Colonel." Kinch gently led Carter over to the desk next to LeBeau who took out a white handkerchief and handed it to the sniffling sergeant. Kinch heard Carter mutter a thanks to LeBeau as he turned to the door leading from the room. 

As he suspected, the commotion had awakened the entire barracks, and the men were nervously standing outside the Colonel's door waiting for news. After reassuring the men that the Colonel was fine (yeah, right) and that it was only a nightmare, he firmly advised them to go back to sleep. When Kinch closed the door again, he swayed slightly on his feet, exhaustion hitting hard.

Newkirk noted the slight movement. "You okay, mate? You seem a bit unsteady there."

"Yeah, Peter, I'm fine. Just tired, that's all." Kinch closed his eyes briefly until the dizziness passed. "Look guys, I think we'd better wait until the morning to decide what to do. It's…" he glanced down at his battered watch. "Three-twenty in the morning. Let's try to get some sleep. In the morning, we'll all have clearer heads. Maybe we'll think of something then."

Newkirk, LeBeau, and Carter all nodded in agreement. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, they looked exhausted as well. The three of them headed out of the small room huddled close together. Kinch walked back over to the still figure on the mattress and studied him carefully. Hogan appeared to be truly sleeping without pain. Kinch, shivering slightly in the chill night air, snatched the blanket from the upper bunk and covered the injured man, being sure to tuck him in securely. It certainly wouldn't help things if the Colonel got a cold from being improperly covered at night. That was another complication that he did not need. 

He brushed the damp black hair from Hogan's forehead and wiped his face with a corner of the blanket. Nodding to himself in satisfaction, Kinch turned to leave the room but stopped just inside the door. "Sleep well, Colonel," he whispered softly. Then he snapped off the light and left.

_____________________________________

"It's been two weeks since 'e came back and 'e still 'asn't said a bloody thing to us. What are we gonna do?"

At Newkirk's passionate outburst, Kinch glanced up from where his folded hands rested atop the wooden table in the main room of the tunnel. The frustrated British corporal abruptly pushed back from the table and began to pace, still unnerved by the Colonel's behavior in the early morning hours. 

"Okay, I admit that I was wrong. I'd hoped that Colonel Hogan would bounce back on his own, but that hasn't happened. I never should have left him alone like that. It won't happen again."

"Ya got that right, mate." Newkirk muttered.

LeBeau shot a poisonous look at the pacing Englishman, brown eyes snapping dangerously before turning to the black radioman. "Kinch, why don't we radio London and see if they can't do something. It's worth a try. The Colonel would do the same for us, if we were lying up there like that."

"I know. I'll try, but you know the position we're in. London won't drop anything or anyone for us until they find the leak that caused this whole mess. Look, about forty resistance members are gone, as well as six group leaders, besides the Colonel. How many more can they afford to loose?" he asked, staring down the other three one at a time until they were all forced to look away. "None." He couldn't keep the frustration out of his voice. "And if they did send a person, how would we explain someone new in camp? We can't hide someone here indefinitely, and that's how long it's going to take for the Colonel to get better – indefinitely! Doctor Muller warned me about pushing him too hard, too fast. The Colonel has to do this on his own. He's got to want to come back to us." Sighing deeply, he hunched over, feeling defeated. "C'mon guys, think! The Colonel will have our heads if we mess this up and ruin the operation here."

"London will know what to do." Newkirk, LeBeau, and Kinch started at the soft voice coming from the doorway. Andrew Carter stood leaning against the doorframe. "They'll take care of this."

"What are you doing down here?" Kinch questioned sharply. "You're supposed to be sitting with the Colonel."

"Anderson spelled me. I wondered where you all had gone to, so I figured you'd be down here." He paused for a few seconds, then continued, his soft voice wounded. "Why didn't you tell me about this meeting?" He remained half outside in the hall as if he knew he was unwanted. 

Although Kinch could not see his expression, he could clearly see Carter's body, taunt with tension. But before he could answer, LeBeau spoke up. "It is not that we did not want you here, Carter, we just thought you needed a break. I know you had a headache this morning no matter how hard you tried to hide it. Are you feeling better?" 

Newkirk laughed. "Blimey, Louis, 'e obviously doesn't. 'E must be delirious if 'e thinks London can fix the Colonel. Carter, that's why we're 'ere – to fix the jams that London gets into. 'Ow are they gonna 'elp us?"

"They'll do something, I know it." Carter finally stepped into the dim light of the main room. He gaze remained locked with Kinch's, his eyes shone with an emotion Kinch could not readily identify. "You've got to try, Kinch." The plea went unvoiced but not unfelt. "Give London a chance."

"All right," he relented. "I'll go contact London and see what they can do. You all go back upstairs. I'll let you know what they say." With that last comment, Kinch stalked out of the room and towards his radio. It was only as he finished up with London that Kinch recognized what emotion he had seen in Carter's eyes. One that he had not seen in a long time. 

Faith.

_______________________________________

Four hours later, he reemerged from the tunnel, message in hand, still struggling to understand the message. Calling the others to him in the corner of the barracks, he read slowly, "Situation under control. Be advised. New cubs arriving soon, one special. Keep on lookout. Goldilocks out."

"Blimey, what does that mean?" Newkirk blurted out. The others appeared just as puzzled as he did.

"I don't know," he admitted. "But I'm sure we'll find out."


	4. New Arrivals

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I do not own any of the rights to Hogan's Heroes or its characters. However, I do claim the rights to all the other characters that are mentioned in the story from here on. 

Author's Note: Okay, everyone. This chapter is a little different from all the previous ones, as it focuses mainly on a couple of new arrivals to Stalag 13. I hope you'll find them intriguing and enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed creating them. A major portion of the next few chapters will be devoted to introducing them, but I promise to include the main characters as much as possible. Oh, before I stop rambling, I want to say a special thanks to Kits for the encouraging note she sent – your thoughts are truly appreciated! And, as always, feel free to write a review here at fanfiction.net or email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. All feedback is greatly appreciated!

Chapter Four – New Arrivals

Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea lifted his head up as his truck approached the barbed wire fence. The other passengers, all POW's like himself, began muttering as soon as they saw the wooden sign stating, quite simply, "Stalag 13." The muttering that started down by the cab caught on like a brushfire, spreading swiftly from the front of the truck to the back. Within seconds, the unrest had reached the guards placed at the tailgate; the two men raised their rifles, ready to stop the possible stampede of frantic men who considered bolting from their temporary prison and making one last insane bid for freedom. None of the prisoners actually believed that they would make it out of the truck alive, but some still contemplated it. Because once they entered those gates, the only way they would be going out would be as dead men.

__

So this is the infamous "unlucky 13," huh? O'Shea didn't have to think hard to recall all he had heard about this place. The Kommandant at Stalag 8 had often mentioned Stalag 13 as a threat to any who attempted escape and were caught. Come to think of it, the Kommandant hadn't really revealed any specific details; he had spoken about the prison camp like a child who talks of the Bogeyman – full of fear and conviction but lacking helpful description. Stalag 13's reputation preceded itself – there had never been any successful escapes from the tightly run camp.

__

Not that I'd try to escape anyway, he thought wryly. _I'd never make it._ He peered with disgust down at his right leg. _Besides, I still don't understand what I did to deserve this transfer. I've never caused trouble, never tried to escape – not like Tanner and Cutler over there. I don't get it._

He thought back two days ago to Stalag 8, his previous prison camp. The Kommandant, Major Schweigert, had had the entire camp assembled earlier than usual for evening roll call. Once gathered, he'd read off a list of fifteen names and ordered them to step forward. _Or limp forward in my case_. Then, Schweigert had gleefully announced in clear, crisp tones that these fifteen "special" prisoners were being transferred. That was all. No reason, no destination, and no idea what was going on. 

Later that night, the men in O'Shea's barracks had tried to come up with some sort of explanation why these specific men were being moved. Most of the fifteen had disciplinary problems, but a few, like O'Shea, did not. Some of his barrack mates were even concerned for his life. For all they knew, the prisoners might be loaded up, sent by truck to the middle of some forest, and then executed. Of course, the official reports would list the cause of death as attempting to escape. Rumors had come through not too long ago of this happening at a nearby camp, although no one knew either the exact location or any of the men executed. Personally, O'Shea did not believe the stories. What would the Luftwaffe gain in executing subdued prisoners?

The truck carrying the prisoners jolted back into motion, throwing O'Shea into the man next to him. Murmuring an apology, he settled himself back down and continued his train of thought. _Where was I? Oh, yes. _O'Shea had discovered the destination but still no reason for the abrupt removal from his friends. That was another problem – friends. He had just started to feel comfortable with everyone there; now he was being jerked away. _And it had taken so long…_Running his hands roughly through his copper hair, he grimaced as he contemplated his ability to make friends.

When he had been younger, he'd had no trouble at all. In fact, he had been quite popular at his local high school. Even when he had joined the U.S. military and become a pilot, he'd found no trouble carving a nitch for himself in his squadron. But ever since his plane had gone down in flames and he'd bailed out over Bremen, things had changed. He was not the same naïve eighteen-year old who had entered the service. He had changed. Drastically changed.

"Hey, Lieutenant."

O'Shea was startled from his reflective thoughts and glanced up warily. Turning to focus his attention on the speaker, he realized belatedly that the truck had stopped, and the men were climbing stiffly over the tailgate. Finally meeting the concerned blue eyes of Campbell Wilson, he answered quietly, "Yes, Captain?"

"Danny," Wilson spoke in soft, earnest tones, "do you need any help climbing down?" He shot a murderous glare at the two guards on the ground outside shouting for the men to hurry. "I'm willing to bet a pack of smokes that those Krauts aren't willing to give you a hand. And besides…" Wilson's voice trailed off.

"Yeah, I know, sir." O'Shea disliked accepting help from others, but he knew in this case it was much wiser than attempting the difficult climb himself. At least the captain was kind enough to offer. Danny hated asking. He quickly accepted Wilson's hand and shuffled out of the truck. Once safely on the ground he muttered his appreciation to the man and tried to maneuver into line with the rest of the prisoners. Then, his worst fear happened.

One of the German guards from the truck laid a hand on his back and pushed him.

Danny gave a cry of terror and collapsed on the ground, cowering. His right leg shot pain up into his hip in protest of the rough landing, and he could not stop the whimper of anguish that escaped his white lips. Then the intense burning pain overwhelmed him and sent him spiraling into darkness.

*****************

Awareness slowly returned.

O'Shea could hear people talking nearby but he couldn't seem to understand the words. They were muffled, as if he was under water or was using earplugs. Feeling returned as well. He felt terrible, lightheaded and dizzy. 

Opening his eyes, he discovered that his shoulders were resting against Wilson's bent knees, that the captain was cradling his head carefully. Another man, a young blond, was pressing a tin cup to his lips. Sipping obediently, he felt the water clear his mind. In a flash, he remembered what had happened, why he was lying on the ground. He closed his eyes and felt his face burn with shame. _Why did it have to happen now?_ he howled in his mind.

A worried voice brought him back to the present. "Sir…Lieutenant, are you all right?" the young man frowned. "Here, let me help you up, sir." 

Just as he reached out a hand, he heard the ominous sound of a door banging open. A loud clipped voice shouted, "What is going on here? Schultz! Report!"

Immediately, the group of men hovering anxiously around O'Shea scattered to line up. All, that is, except for the young man and Capt. Wilson, who helped the struggling man to his feet. By the time he regained his balance, leaning heavily against Wilson's broad shoulder, a man – apparently, the Kommandant – had finished interrogating the portly sergeant of the guards. The Colonel strode over to where O'Shea stood weakly.

"What happened?" he demanded, tall thin form looming over the smaller red haired Lieutenant. 

Danny risked a swift glance upward and almost faltered, seeing the hawk-like face and gleaming monocle. "Well, Kommandant, I fell." The lie came easily enough. "Lost my balance." He felt the blond man stiffen next to him, but still remain silent. _He must have seen the guard push me._ "I'm sorry, sir."

The Colonel scowled. "Try not to be so clumsy! The next time you are, you might wind up in the cooler!" O'Shea watched the thin man turn on his heel and march off. He let out the breath he'd been holding. Only then did he turn to the stranger beside him to offer his thanks.

******************

Sergeant Andrew Carter had been watching the offloading of the prisoners nearby in the doorway of Barracks 2, curious, as always, about the new arrivals. He'd seen the young officer collapse and bolted over to help without a second thought. When he'd arrived, the young man, a lieutenant, seemed to be unconscious and another man - a captain, no less - was holding him, trying to wake him. Only as he pressed the tin cup into the Lieutenant's hands did he remember that he'd been holding it. It took Carter a few seconds to puzzle through this mystery. He finally concluded that he'd been on his way in to see Colonel Hogan when he'd spotted the truck entering the compound and come out to see the new prisoners.

Suddenly, the dreadfully pale redhead had stirred and had blinked, his brilliant green eyes confused and disoriented. Then, understanding had dawned in his eyes. The realization terrible was to see. The green eyes had widened, filled with what looked like pain and shame. _Shame? It wasn't his fault! I saw the guard push him! _

Carter didn't see how the man could stand but he somehow pulled himself erect right as Klink barged up demanding answers. He was filled with righteous indignity at the Lt.'s false explanation, but did not want to get the man in trouble by arguing. He was impressed by the stranger – his bravery and determination in spite of what appeared to be excruciating pain. 

Waving aside the man's soft thanks, he finally introduced himself to the two officers. "Sergeant Andrew Carter, sirs. Welcome to Stalag 13. It ain't much but it's home. Oh, and don't mind Klink, he's just in a bad mood." He grinned and offered his hand to the men. A couple of warm handshakes later, the men completed the introductions.

"Captain Campbell Wilson," offered the dark haired man.

"Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. Thanks again for the hand," replied the green eyed man in a soft voice.

"Gosh, don't mention it, sir. Just glad I could help." Carter's curiosity finally got the better of him. "If you don't mind my askin', what happened? I didn't think the guard pushed that hard."

O'Shea flushed at the innocent question. "I lost my balance, that's all. I've been having trouble with my right leg for a while." Noticing Carter's inquisitive look, he added, "Bad parachute landing."

"Ah. That's too bad, sir. Didn't it heal right? Or did the Krauts take you to one of their fake doctors?"

"Well, let's just say I didn't get prompt medical attention." O'Shea laughed slightly.

Carter couldn't help but notice that the laughter did not reach his green eyes, which darted serepticiously around the compound, avoiding direct eye contact. _Something's not right here,_ he concluded. _He's not telling the truth, at least not the whole truth. _His suspicions were confirmed when the blue eyed Captain shifted uneasily beside him. Thinking quickly, he decided to let the matter drop – for now. "Where ya'll from?"

The Captain easily took the lead. "We're from Stalag 8, Sergeant. Up near Bremen."

"I know, sir." Carter almost bit his tongue at the admission and thought furiously for a good explanation. "I…I mean, that's what I've heard, sir. You know, you can pick up all kinds of interestin' things from the guards around here." He quickly shut his mouth before he let something else slip out.

Capt. Wilson gave him and an odd look. "Really? Well, don't look now, but here comes one of them right now."

As Carter turned to greet Schultz, he saw Wilson step halfway in front of the Lieutenant. _Huh. That's strange. But I guess even old Schultz can look pretty intimidating the first time you meet him._ "Hiya, Schultz!" he called out in a cheery voice.

"Ah, Carter! Just the man I wanted to see. Colonel Klink has just finished assigning the new men to their barracks, and since you've got two empty bunks, you get two men. Pretty smart, eh?" he chuckled, impressed with his own logic. "And since your's is the senior barracks, you get the most senior men." He lowered his voice conspiratorially for Carter's ears alone, though his booming voice easily carried to the two men next to him. "Actually, one of the men is a Captain and since Colonel Hogan – "

"Yeah, Schultz, I understand." Carter interrupted before the large sergeant could say anything in front of the new men. He had a feeling that Kinch wouldn't want them to know about the Colonel right away. They had tried to conceal Hogan's condition as much as possible from the other barracks, but that had proved impossible. Word of the torment the senior POW officer had endured had leaked out through the camp within the first few days. He stepped away from the portly man and said, "Sirs, if you'll follow me?" 

Wilson and O'Shea followed him as he walked rapidly away, wondering how he was going to explain this to Kinch. Not only did they have a seriously injured commander, but they also had two new men with untested loyalties. Who knew if they could be trusted? But it was Kinch's problem, he decided. Kinch would figure out what to do. 

Carter was so caught up in his thoughts that he did not notice for a few yards that O'Shea had fallen behind and was struggling to catch up. Only then did he notice the pronounced limp that the man had, and slowed his pace to better accommodate the injured lieutenant. 

Trying to get some information without being obvious, he casually inquired, "So. How long since ya'll were captured?" 

Wilson sighed softly before replying, "One year. One long, boring, frustrating year. I wish to God that I'd never been on that blasted mission! Sixteen planes started out but when I was shot down, there were only ten left." He shook his head. "I can't believe it's been so long. I should have escaped by now. It's pathetic."

Carter soon figured out that the Captain was rambling, trying to keep the Lieutenant from answering the simple question. _I wonder why. _He refused to be diverted and repeated the question to the young lieutenant. 

There was a long pause before O'Shea answered, voice barely audible. "Fifteen months." That was all he said.

Carter almost gaped at him. _Fifteen months?! Boy, that must have been some landing to have done that much damage! He should have healed up by now!_ "That's too bad, sirs, but I got you all beat. Two years next month."

"Two years?" Wilson exclaimed. "And you've never tried to escape?"

__

Great, Carter thought, nearly groaning in annoyance, _just what we need - another escape artist. We'll have to keep an eye on this one. He could ruin our whole operation._ "Things don't work that way around here, Captain. No one has ever escaped from Stalag 13. And no one ever will." He replied in a soft voice.

Wilson's blue eyes gleamed dangerously. "Then, Sergeant, you're looking at the first man who's going to do it." That said, the trio reached Barracks 2 and stepped through the door.

****************

O'Shea glanced around the inside of the barracks, trying not to appear too curious. It didn't look all that much different from his old barracks at Stalag 8. In fact, it was completely identical, except for one thing. 

The closed, wooden door at the end of the barracks. 

Carter slipped through it after telling the two officers to wait for him by the barracks door. As he waited, Danny became conscious of the stares from the other men lounging on their bunks. The most obvious of the stares came from two men playing cards at the sole table in the barracks. After a few uncomfortable moments, O'Shea felt Wilson move from his side to the men at the table. Danny wasn't surprised. Wilson always seemed to be able to discern the leaders of any group. And this one wasn't any exception.

"Hi, there. Captain Campbell Wilson, United States Army Air Corps. A Sergeant Schultz just assigned us to your barracks." He held out his hand.

The two men glanced at each other, astonishment written on the face of the smaller, black haired man in a faded red sweater. The taller man's face was emotionless – the perfect poker face. For a moment, no one moved, tension filling the enclosed space. Then the taller one stood up and shook Wilson's hand, his blue British RAF uniform providing a clue to his nationality right before he spoke up in a heavy British accent. "Ah. Corporal Peter Newkirk, mate. This 'ere's Corporal Louis LeBeau." He gestured towards his opponent. 

The short man spoke up in a thick French accent. "Pleased to meet you, Captain." He turned his dark brown eyes to O'Shea. "And you are…?"

Danny limped over to the table. "Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea." He nodded and smiled slightly as he shook both their hands.

"So," Newkirk went on, "Klink put you both in 'ere, eh? Well, fancy that." He shot a glance at the closed door at the other end of the building, then turned back to the new men. "You two just get captured or did you get transferred?"

Wilson took over the lead, and O'Shea gladly let him. He looked nervously back the way he had come. He didn't like to be in confined spaces. Not since…

He shut his eyes to hold back the painful memories that flashed through his mind. He shifted imperceptibly towards the door leading to the outside, and opened his eyes. He was startled to find that the world around him was spinning. To keep his balance, he clutched the closest object he could find, which turned out to be a bunk post. The voices chattering at the table abruptly stopped, and, through his whirling mind, he soon felt a hand touch his shoulder. He could barely keep himself from shrinking away at the touch, even though he knew who it was. Wilson. 

"Danny, are you okay?" Wilson asked, concern lacing his deep voice. 

O'Shea felt an arm go around his shoulders, trying to lead him to a nearby bunk. He pulled away. He couldn't stay inside. He needed air, need to get out! NOW!

Gasping for air, he limped to the door, bursting through it into the cool, refreshing spring air. Taking a few more staggering steps, he sank to the ground against the side of the barracks, head thrown back, gulping the sweet air like a drowning man. 

As he settled down, he realized what he had done - what had just happened. He'd had panic attack. He hadn't had one for almost two months. He shuddered and huddled closer to the wall. _Why?_ he cried inside. _Why now, in front of all those men? I thought I was all over that. _

But even as he ached inside, he forced himself to face the facts. The one place he had felt secure in – Stalag 8 – had been taken away from him. All of his friends, the men who understood him better than anyone else – gone. He felt abandoned. Alone. Adrift. 

He felt the black, raging tide of despair flowing over his soul, eating away the control that he had struggled to regain. It was so tempting to just let go and make everything just – go away. So easy. 

His senses started receding. First, his sight - the world and its colors blurred to gray. Then, his sense of touch - everything went numb. The only sense left was his hearing. Just as he was about to loose that and disconnect completely, a voice intruded into his thoughts. A familiar, comforting voice. He had to go back to it. He latched onto the voice and pulled himself back to reality, hand by aching hand. Almost there…almost there…there.

He blinked. Two hands were gripping his shoulders firmly, and a voice kept repeating his name over and over. He struggled briefly, fighting feebly. Then, his vision finally clearing, he recognized Campbell Wilson kneeling in front of him, and slumped against the wall behind him, totally exhausted. 

"Will?" he whispered.

"Yeah, Danny. It's me. You had me pretty worried there for a while, you rushing out like that. It was almost like…" He paused. "You gonna be okay?"

O'Shea nodded weakly, pushing back the sweaty red hair off his forehead with a shaking hand.

"Look, kid, I know this is hard for you. This is the last thing you need after all you've been through. It's gonna take time." He paused as he locked gazes with O'Shea, blue eyes staring into green. "But I want you to know, I'm here for you. Whenever you need me. You're not alone, Danny. You need to remember that. Okay?"

"Yeah…yeah, Will. Thanks." He sighed deeply, the air coming from the depths of his soul. "It's just…"

"Just what?" Wilson prompted after a brief silence.

Danny stayed silent and shook his head negatively. He did not want to go into that right now. Not here. Especially not here, in plain view of all the other prisoners.

"Okay. Don't push yourself. When you feel like talking, you know where I am." He chuckled quietly. "And apparently, I'm not going anywhere for a while."

Danny couldn't help but smile.

*****************

Carter slipped into the darkened room quietly, so as not to startle anyone inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim interior, he identified the man he needed to speak with, sitting hunched over in a wooden chair next to the lower bunk. "Kinch?" Carter softly moved forward when the silent figure did not reply. "Kinch?" He tried again as he touched the black tech sergeant on the shoulder lightly. This time he got a response.

Kinch raised his head to Carter, dragging his brown eyes from the figure on the bed. "What is it, Carter?"

"Uh, Kinch, I'm sorry to bother you, but there's something important that you need to know." He faltered, his eyes locked onto the bandaged swathed man on the bed. Just looking at him made his heart sink. Hogan's right eye was open, staring blankly into the bunk above him. Carter shook his head to regain his train of thought. "I think you need to come outside to see this."

"Alright, Carter." 

Carter didn't know whether he liked that answer or not. The last time someone had separated Kinch from Hogan, Kinch had nearly bitten the man's head off for the interruption. The black man had hardly left the room, except to eat and take a shower. Everyone knew not to disturb him – even Colonel Klink left him alone. 

Closing the Colonel's door behind him, Kinch looked up at the thin sergeant, the exhaustion showing plainly on his face. Carter didn't want to make Kinch's day any worse but he needed to know about the two officers and soon, before someone let something important slip.

Carter searched the room for the new arrivals but did not see them. _Huh, that's odd. I thought I told them to stay right here._ He motioned for Kinch to join Newkirk and LeBeau at the table, before asking where the two officers had gone.

Newkirk glanced at LeBeau, then back at Carter. "Well, Andrew, that's a good question. We were sittin' 'ere talkin' to the Captain, when the Lieutenant started looking kinda poorly, like 'e was sick or somethin'. Right, Louis?"

"Oui." The little Frenchman agreed. "The Lieutenant rushed out of here all of a sudden. The Captain said something about 'motion sickness' and rushed outside after him."

"Yeah. It was strange, mate. Never seen someone look that bad from motion sickness before."

Kinch, who had been following the whole conversation with a confused expression, finally butted in. "What Captain? Who are you talking about?" He fixed his gaze on Carter.

"That's what I was going to tell ya, Kinch. We got a whole truckload of prisoners that just arrived and Klink assigned the two officers to our barracks." He screwed his eyes tightly, waiting for the outburst he knew would come.

"He WHAT?!" Kinch yelped. "You've got to be kidding me! How could Klink assign us two new prisoners with the Colonel like he is right now."

Clearing his throat, Carter mentioned what Schultz had told him, how Klink wanted the Captain there because it was the senior POW's barracks. Kinch looked shocked at the German's audacity. The four men talked quietly amongst themselves for a few more minutes before Newkirk said what was foremost on their minds.

"There isn't much we can do about it, is there, gents? The main thing is, do we tell them about the Colonel? And how are we going to keep them from knowing about our operation? We can't hide them it for long." Newkirk glanced at the door, anxious to settle the matter before the two men in question appeared.

Kinch didn't have to think long to make his decision. "No. They can't know about either. Hiding our Underground operation isn't going to be that hard right now. London has already said they were diverting our assignments to other cells until we can…settle things. The only thing we'll have to be careful about is opening and closing the tunnel entrance when we use the radio. We'll have to set up a watch system." He sighed tiredly and blinked hard. "The Colonel is another matter. I think we should try to keep him under wraps for now. After all, we don't know much about this Captain Wilson – whether or not he'd push for the Colonel's senior command position if he knew what condition he was in." 

Thinking for a minute, he continued. "Okay, this is what we're going to do. If they ask, we'll tell them the truth about that room being the senior POW's quarters. We can't hide that. But we'll tell them that Colonel Hogan is sick with some unknown disease and only a few people are allowed in." Looking at each man briefly, Kinch concluded his instructions to the command team. "Okay, everybody understand the plan? None of the new prisoners are to know about either our Underground activities or Colonel Hogan's condition. Understood? All right, then I'm relying on you three to spread the word to the rest of the camp – quietly, but quickly, got it? The sooner everyone knows, the better." 

After a few more instructions, the quartet broke up to go about their duties – Kinch returning to Hogan's side, the rest of the men slipping nonchalantly through the camp to spread the new orders. Carter sat at the table for a few seconds longer after the rest had left. _I completely forgot to talk to Kinch about the new men – and he forgot to ask! Oh, well_, he thought as he rose from the table to go about his assignment._ I'll just have to tell him later._


	5. Settling In

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All characters in this story belong to whoever owns the rights for Hogan's Heroes, except for O'Shea and Wilson – they belong to me. Oh, and I'm not making any money from this story, not that I couldn't use it.

Author's Notes: Sorry this took so long to get done everyone. Now that college is starting, I'm not sure how often I'll be able to post, but I hope to get a chapter out at least every couple of weeks or so. Just hang in with me – I promise I'll finish this story. Thank you all so much for the encouraging comments and reviews. I look forward to reading what you think. As always, feedback is greatly appreciated! Feel free to leave a review or email me at Adalanta14@yahoo.com. 

Chapter Five – Settling In

The sun shone brightly on Stalag 13 out of a beautiful, robin's egg blue spring sky, complete with little white puffy clouds dotting the huge expanse. The yellow light seemed to reach every corner of the German prison of war camp, providing warmth and comfort to those below. And indeed, most of the POWs were in a fine mood. Actually, all of them were. All, that is, except the young Lieutenant sitting with his back against one of the wall of Barracks 2, curled up with his knees to his chest, his head resting on them. 

A figure opened the wooden door of the barracks and leaned out to check on the Lieutenant, but upon seeing the young man's posture, sighed sadly and closed the door. Campbell Wilson returned to the table in the center of the room, where everyone else was gathering to eat. It was time for dinner, and, for once, the food smelled good enough to enjoy. He stood on the outer edge of the impromptu circle that ringed a diminutive Frenchman. _LeBeau, I think. I'll have to learn quickly. I sure don't want him mad at me just because I can't remember his name. If that food tastes half as good as it looks, this is going to be the best meal I've had since…since before I joined the Army!_

Unsure of how the rest of the men would react to the "newbie" in camp, he decided to stand back and see how things worked. Back at Stalag 8, the new men were absorbed quite easily, but he'd heard from some of the transfers that other camps were different. Some men were downright vicious when they learned they had to share with a new prisoner. He didn't think this camp was like that, but he wasn't sure. And even though he was a gambler, he decided, for the sake of the slumped figure outside, that this time it wasn't worth the risk. If something happened to him, if someone decided they didn't like or want him around, they might include O'Shea in that with him. _Geez, _he thought,_ the kid's been through enough. I don't want to make things even rougher for him._

He winced as he thought about Danny O'Shea. Wilson had been there the day he'd been practically carried into camp, catatonic and badly injured. The kid had looked so young and vulnerable that he'd immediately decided to take him under his wing. Ever since then, he'd been O'Shea's unofficial protector, and more importantly, his best friend. Separated in age by four year, Danny had instantly reminded him of his little brother Mitch, and just like Mitch, Danny had desperately needed help but refused to ask for it. If anything, Danny was stubborn. That was a miracle after all that had happened to him.

"Captain Wilson?"

The fact that someone was calling his name finally registered. Blinking a few times to clear his mind of his disturbing thoughts, he was mortified to find that all of the other men were staring at him. "I'm sorry, did you say something?" he cleared his throat nervously.

LeBeau smiled. "You must be very hungry. Come up and get your food first." He gestured with the ladle to the front of the line that had materialized before him. "It is a welcoming ritual we hold for the new men."

Wilson gaped in astonishment, amazed by this group's hospitality and immense generosity. He realized his mouth was open only after a few of the men started to chuckle and immediately snapped it shut, stammering a sincere thank you.

As he received his plate of food, some sort of potato stew with chunks of meat (_real meat?!_) in it, he was offered a seat on a nearby bunk by the Englishman he'd talked to briefly several hours earlier. 

"Ey, Captain! You can sit 'ere!" called out the brown haired man in the blue RAF uniform. "There's not enough room at the table, so we jus' sit on the bottom bunks usually. This 'ere's my bunk." He grinned slyly. "Try not to spill anything on it though, eh, sir?"

Wilson nodded. "Thanks, Corporal." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm sorry, but I can't remember your name."

"Newkirk, Peter Newkirk. Don't worry about forgetting my name, mate. You jus' got into camp a few hours ago." 

"Right." Wilson peered down at his bowl, his mouth watering. He didn't really want to eat the stew, afraid that it would not live up to its wonderful smell and shatter all his hopes. 

Newkirk apparently noticed his look. "Go on. Taste it."

He lifted the spoon to his mouth slowly and closed his eyes at the same time his mouth closed about the eating utensil. His blue eyes flew open in delight, moaning in pure pleasure. "That's delicious! What – how – I can't believe it! Do you eat this good all the time?"

"Yep, although LeBeau made this up specially for you new guys' first night 'ere."

"Wow! That's amazing! If he – " Wilson cut himself off as he noticed the young blond man, Carter, appear quietly beside him. "Can I help you, sergeant?"

The young man nodded, his blue eyes looking bewildered and concerned at the same time. "Umm, hi, Captain. I was wondering where the Lieutenant was." He nodded towards the steaming bowl of stew in his hands. "I was going to take this to him and see how he was feeling. Is he outside still?"

The Captain was surprised by the man's obvious concern. "Yes, he is. But I don't think he really feels like eating right now." He wasn't sure if he wanted his friend disturbed at this point, even by as friendly a face as this one. But he soon learned that Carter was not easily dissuaded.

"But Captain, he needs to eat, especially if he's sick or somethin'. It's a long time until morning chow." 

Wilson hesitated, thoughts warring with one another in his mind, but finally relented. He had the feeling that this young man could be just as stubborn as his friend outside. And besides, he was touched by his concern, his willingness to help. After all, wasn't he the one who had rushed up to help him when Danny had collapsed? Looking at the sergeant from a new perspective, he had the strangest feeling that he might be able to break through O'Shea's thick emotional walls and befriend him. And if Danny needed anything right now, it was another friend to help support him.

"Okay, Carter. The last time I saw him, O'Shea was outside on the left by the wall." He paused for a moment. Then the corners of his mouth tilted up slightly, and his eyes sparkled mischievously. "Oh, and if he refuses to eat, which he probably will, tell him I said it was a direct order. Don't take no for an answer, sergeant. Got it?"

Carter smiled brightly and tried to salute, almost upending the delicious potato stew all over his uniform. He blushed and quickly made his escape out the door.

Wilson glanced over at Newkirk to see his blue eyes shining, locked onto the retreating figure of Carter. "He seems like a nice kid. I don't think I've ever met anyone else like him." he softly admitted.

"Yeah," Newkirk laughed affectionately still staring at the closed door. "Carter's one of a kind. There ain't anyone like him in London at any rate." He twisted his neck to look at Wilson. "'Ey, speaking of 'ome, where ya from?"

********************

Carter stepped out into the prison yard prepared for a long search to find the missing lieutenant, but a flash of red caught his attention after just a few seconds, thus ending his search. The afternoon sunlight glinted off the copper head of a hunched over individual sitting a few yards away. 

The closer Carter came to the Lieutenant, the more his uncertainty grew. The officer was huddled against the side of the barracks with his knees tucked up under his chin which was resting on top of them. His impossibly young face gazed absently out into the prison yard. His mind was obviously somewhere else.

The sergeant cleared his throat loudly several feet back, not wanting to surprise the officer, but he failed. The noise caused the young man to jump slightly anyway. The Lieutenant – _O'Shea_, he reminded himself – twisted his head to see who had interrupted his thoughts. Carter noticed that he seemed to relax his tight grip around his legs as he recognized him. _At least, he seems comfortable around me_, he thought with a slight wave of pride.

"Hey, Lieutenant. I thought ya might be hungry. It's a long time till breakfast." His heart sank as O'Shea shook his head.

"No, thanks, Sergeant. I'm not hungry." He shifted his gaze back to the yard, apparently mesmerized by the empty expanse. All the other prisoners were inside their barracks eating supper.

Carter chewed his lower lip nervously and paused. He didn't like telling a superior officer to do something, even when ordered to do so by another officer. The only person he had really done that to was Colonel Hogan when he was explaining to him how and when to use one of his explosives. Even then, it still felt awkward. _But if the Lieutenant is feeling sick (and he sure looks like it), he needs to eat. _He straightened his shoulders and carried out the Captain's order.

"Beggin' your pardon, sir, but Capt. Wilson said to tell ya that it's a direct order. I'm not supposed to take no for an answer." He was surprised when the comment elicited a small smile from O'Shea. 

"Yes, that does sound like Capt. Wilson." He paused for a second, then finally turned to his right and met Carter's eyes. "So, what have you got, Carter?"

Carter grinned and hunkered down next to the Lieutenant. "Oh, sir, you're gonna love it. It's one of LeBeau's specialties. He doesn't make it very often, just for special occasions and things like that."

O'Shea frowned, bewilderment showing on his face but took the wooden bowl from Carter's outstretched hands. "Special occasions? What special occasions can there be in a POW camp?"

Carter mentally kicked himself. _I did it again – put my foot right smack into my big mouth! I can't tell him about all of our "mission accomplished" parties. Think, Andrew, think! _ "Well, err, um, there's Christmas, Easter, ya know, sir, all the major holidays. Then there's Roosevelt's birthday, Churchill's birthday, and sometimes one of our own birthdays if he can get the ingredients, and – "

"Okay, okay, I get it!" O'Shea interrupted, although a slight smile softened the bite of his abrupt words. He laughed softly and gestured to the ground beside him with his free hand. "Why don't you sit down, Carter? You squat like that for too long and your knees are going to wear out."

"Thanks, Lieutenant." Carter sank down into the dirt and tried to think of someway to get some more information from this mysterious stranger. "So…what do ya think of the place so far, sir? I mean, I know ya just got here an' all and haven't seen much of it, but how is it compared to your old camp?" 

O'Shea paused with a spoonful of potato stew halfway to his mouth. He placed the utensil back into the bowl and then glanced about the camp thoughtfully. "So far, it looks a lot like Stalag 8 – same dirt, same barbed wire. Different guards, of course, although they all sort of look alike at first. I suppose it really isn't all that different. The commandant of Stalag 8, Major Schweigert, made it sound like hell on earth." He snorted slightly. "You should have seen the rest of the men in the truck when they finally saw where they were going. I thought for a few seconds that they were going to bolt, try to escape."

"Gosh, sir. Would you have tried to escape, too?" Carter's tone was deceptively innocent. _Now I'm getting somewhere._ O'Shea's green eyes snapped over at him, filled with pain and something else – something he couldn't put his finger on.

"With this leg? You must be joking!" He replied sarcastically, his voice suddenly filled with bitterness. "I can't run. For that matter, I can't even walk too well." 

The lieutenant turned away, mumbling something under his breath, but the only word that Carter picked out sounded suspiciously like "cripple." 

"I'm sorry about your leg, Lieutenant. How did you say it happened?" 

"Bad parachute landing." He answered shortly and shifted his position nervously, strangely engrossed in his stew. He picked up his spoon and stirred his lunch, although he had yet to take a single bite.

__

After fifteen months? It should have healed by now! There's something he's not telling me. "That's tough, sir. Did you break it?"

O'Shea closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the side of the barracks, abandoning his meal completely. "Yes." 

It was obvious to Carter that the subject was off limits. He'd neatly sidestepped the question once before and now was replying as little as possible.

The young tech sergeant considered what he'd discovered. It was pretty clear that the Lieutenant was indeed an American aviator, and not a German plant. Carter felt guilty for even thinking that, but with his group's dangerous position, security came first. The officer's story (what little he had divulged) had stayed the same. And that leg…the pain in his eyes had been too intense to fake. He sighed silently. For some reason, he felt relieved. Lieutenant O'Shea seemed like a nice guy. And it would be great to have someone close to his own age in camp for once. Deciding to hold back the rest of his questions, Carter suggested that they return inside.

******************

"This 'ere's your bunks, gents." Newkirk gestured towards a set of rough wooden bunks, one on top of each other. "I 'ope ya don't mind the window, but that's the best we can do. All the others are taken already."

"Thanks, Newkirk," came Wilson's calm voice, anxious to smooth over any possible concerns about one of the officers pushing an enlisted man out of his bunk. He would never do anything like that – pull rank for such a petty reason. Besides, the window was exactly what Danny needed. "It'll be fine." 

Wilson watched as Newkirk nodded and moved over to a pair of bunks a couple beds down, flinging himself on the thin mattress with ease born of repetition. The Captain turned to O'Shea who was standing nearby, eyes locked on the top bunk with nervous trepidation. The fear in those green depths made Wilson tighten his fists in frustration. He wished bitterly that they had never been transferred from Stalag 8. 

He slid over to the Lieutenant, noting that nearly all of the men were already in their bunks and ready for the lights to be shut off. "Danny, come on. You need to get some sleep."

O'Shea nodded tightly, eyes never leaving his bunk and looking as if he wished he were anywhere but there. However, he clenched his jaw tightly and climbed stiffly onto the upper bunk. "Night, Will," he whispered, the mattress rustling as he moved around.

"Goodnight, Danny." Campbell Wilson closed his eyes and quickly fell asleep.

********************

Unseen by Wilson or O'Shea, Andrew Carter had observed the whole previous scene. He had noticed how uncomfortable the red-head had seemed, how reluctant he was to go to sleep. Unlike Captain Wilson, however, Carter had seen how the lieutenant had curled up on his side. That was not strange, but the direction he was lying in was. 

O'Shea was facing the window – in full view of the search-lights that continuously swept the barracks, to ensure that no prisoners were escaping. The search-lights were the reason that the top bunk was never used; they tended to keep the occupant awake throughout the night. It was very odd that an officer, especially one with a leg injury that would make climbing difficult, would prefer that particular bunk.

__

Just another strange habit of O'Shea's, Carter noted. He intended to stay awake for a while and think over all the events of the day, but he was too tired. With Newkirk's gentle snores coming from the bunk below, Carter drifted off to sleep.

A strange noise woke Carter instantly after what seemed like only minutes. He lay motionless on his bunk, trying to figure out what had jolted him from his sleep. For one fearful moment, his sleep fogged mind thought the noise was coming from Colonel Hogan's room. He held his breath and waited, hoping and praying that the Colonel was not having another nightmarish episode and that his condition would not be compromised. His heart thumping loudly in his chest, Carter heard the sound again and was relieved to find it was not coming from the adjacent room. 

__

But where was it coming from? 

The noise sounded a third time. This time he was able to identify not only the location, but also the source, even though he still couldn't figure out what the sound was. It was coming from two bunks over – the new lieutenant's bunk. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the room's darkness, he was able to see what was happening.

O'Shea was on his back, moving restlessly on the thin mattress, white-knuckled hands tightly clenching the gray blanket twisted around his body. His head shifted uneasily in his sleep and a low moan emerged from his lips. His chest moved rapidly, pumping up and down, breathe coming in uneven pants. 

__

A nightmare. Carter felt himself relax. _It's only a nightmare._

While not everyday occurrences, nightmares were not unknown to the men of Barracks 2. Every man there had seen his share of combat and brought with him more than his share of ghastly images that tended to manifest themselves in nightmare form. Carter himself had only had a few, but then he hadn't had to deal with as much as some of the others. 

__

Like Kohler over there, he thought sadly. _If I'd been trapped in a cockpit for five hours watchin' my friend slowly bleed to death, unable to help, I'd probably wake up screamin', too. But then, Kohler has been gettin' better. He hasn't had a nightmare in a coupla months._ His thoughts were interrupted by another sound.

He jerked his head up in alarm. _Oh, my gosh!_ his mind screamed._ He's choking!_ Just as he moved to jump out of bed, the dark figure of Wilson sat up in bed and was instantly at his friend's side. Carter leaned over to the left a little to see what the Captain would do.

Wilson gently pried O'Shea's clenched left fist from his blanket, then held it tightly within his own shaking hand. He laid his other hand on his friend's forehead, tenderly smoothing back his damp hair and began to whisper to him.

********************

"Shhh, Danny, it's alright…it's okay, go back to sleep…it's just a dream, Danny." Wilson crooned soothing words to O'Shea, trying to disengage the nightmare's brutal claws from his trembling friend's mind. After long minutes of whispering reassurances and silent prayers, he succeeded in coaxing Danny back into a deep sleep. He stood there holding his hand for a little while longer, staring in concern at the sleeping young man, taking in his pale, sweaty face. He gently wiped away the blood on Danny's mouth from the lip he had bitten while in the depths of his nightmare. 

For a time, he could barely think. Thoughts chasing themselves around his mind at a frantic pace, around and around dizzily until they ultimately coalesced into one clear, overwhelming conclusion. _It's happening all over again._ He leaned his dark head wearily against the bottom rail of O'Shea's bunk. _That's three attacks today – more than he's had in the last six months combined! If I can't stop them soon, he's going to shut down again, just like before, only this time I don't know if I'll be able to pull him out of it._ He sighed deeply, his dark-blue eyes nearly black with worry. 

Releasing O'Shea's limp hand from his, he carefully placed it over his chest, then straightened the tangled blanket and tucked it over the sleeping form. He reached down to his own bunk next, snatched his blanket, and spread that over him, as well. This done, he returned to his own bunk at last, satisfied that Danny would sleep at least for a while, and hopefully for the whole night.

He turned over the events of the last few days in his mind. He wasn't exactly sure what had provoked this particular nightmare. After all, Danny hadn't had one in quite a few months. _It could be a number of things_, he concluded. _The sudden separation from the only place he had felt secure in, the touch of the German guard, or the panic attack from earlier. If this keeps up, he'll turn into a living wreck. And he was just beginning to get on with his life! It's not FAIR!_ he shouted angrily in mind. _He's been through so much already! How much more can he take?!_

Too upset to fall back to sleep, he lay stiffly on his bunk. Helplessness and frustration flooded his soul. It hurt seeing Danny like that – vulnerable, afraid, out of control. In a mind red-hot with fury, he cursed the Luftwaffe officials who had interfered with he and Danny's lives, using their all mighty power to jerk and twist the confining strings that bound them. He blasted Germany for starting the war and Japan for bringing the United States into it. But most of all, he damned the guns responsible for shooting down Danny's B-17. That single shot had cost nine men their lives, and taken O'Shea not only to the brink of death, but also to the brink of sanity. With every breath he took, his rage grew, turning from a fiery, glowing ember into a full-fledged firestorm. Unused to this strange burning rage, he felt as if his soul was about to be consumed. He floundered mentally, knowing he had to release the fire within. 

Not knowing what else to do, he tried to calm himself by taking long, deep breaths, mentally releasing all the anger and tension that had built up in his tall body. He closed his eyes, inhaling cool air and exhaling the fire from within. It worked. Eventually. His last thought before sleep claimed him was _At least no one else saw what happened._

********************

But unknown to him, someone had. And before Andrew Carter fell asleep, he made a promise to himself to try to find out what was wrong with the young lieutenant and see what he could do for him. Daniel O'Shea was going to be helped, whether he knew it or not.


	6. Nothing Lasts Forever

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: I do not claim to own anything whatsoever of Hogan's Heroes. I do own all of the new characters that appear or that are described in this story. 

Author's Note: Sorry for the extended delay, everyone. I've been working a lot of extra hours at my job, and my life has been absolutely crazy. Anyway, please remember to leave me a review or send me an email at adalanta14@yahoo.com. I love getting feedback! 

Chapter Six – Nothing Lasts Forever

"Roll call! Everybody outside! Raus! Raus!" The booming voice of Sgt. Schultz echoed through the barracks, covering up the various moans and muttered curses that sounded rebelliously from the sleepy men angry at the abrupt awakening. 

Lt. Danny O'Shea slid from his upper bunk and landed with a light _thump_ on the wooden floor, narrowly missing his best friend and lower bunkmate, Capt. Campbell Wilson. Normally this unintentional attack would have earned him a muffled, "Geez, Danny, watch what you're doing!" This morning, however, no angry words were spoken. Things were not as they normally were – as they had been for the past year or so. Everything was different. 

Today was their first full day as prisoners at Stalag 13.

All Wilson did today was throw O'Shea a glance that was hard to read so early in the morning. Side by side, they joined the crowd of men streaming from Barracks 2 out into the predawn light of the compound and assembled there just as they had for so long at Stalag 8, their previous prisoner of war camp. 

During the lengthy time it took the Germans to meticulously count the Allied airmen, O'Shea did what nearly all of the other fliers did – he let his mind wander. Think of something far away, something to take their mind off of the early morning chill and the thought of the start of another long, boring day stuck behind enemy lines. 

But instead of thinking of home, he thought of the strange door at the other end of his barracks.

Barracks 2 was almost exactly the same as his previous barracks at Stalag 8 – the same rickety double bunks, the same wood-burning stove that never seemed to heat the room enough. But that door…there hadn't been one of them before.

He shuffled his feet as he peered around at the other prisoners. Wilson was, of course, right next to him in formation. _My wingman_. He smirked at the thought. There was Sgt. Carter standing to the left of Cpl. LeBeau and Cpl. Newkirk. From what he had seen since his arrival yesterday, these three men appeared to be quite close friends, even thought they seemed to have absolutely nothing in common except their current place of residence. Their attitudes seemed to vary as widely as their countries of birth. 

To the right of Carter stood a tall, thin black man. O'Shea cocked his head slightly to see the man's jacket and find out his rank. It took a few moments for him to get a good view of his upper arm. _Ah,_ _a Sergeant_. American, too. _Strange, though_, he blinked as a thought struck him,_ I don't remember seeing him yesterday in the barracks. Not even last night before lights out_. Heshook his head when he realized that he had been too preoccupied at that time with his own fears to really notice anything.

He was still puzzling over the mysterious door, so deep in thought that he was oblivious to everything around him, when his preoccupied mind finally registered that someone was talking to him. Turning his head to the right, he saw Wilson standing beside him in the otherwise empty exercise yard. He blinked in confusion. _I didn't even hear the dismissal!_ The Captain examined him intently. "Hmm? Sorry, Will, did you say something?" 

"I said, Danny, that we need to get that lip of your taken care of before it gets infected."

O'Shea stared at his friend. "My lip? What's wrong with my lip? What are you talking about?" Without realizing it, he stuck out his tongue and involuntarily licked his lips. He muttered an oath at the sharp stinging pain the simple action brought. "What the heck happened to my lip?" He lifted a hand to his mouth, trying to feel the extent of the damage. Only after tenderly feeling the large slit did he realize that Wilson had not answered his question, seemingly mesmerized by the men milling about the compound, calling to each other in a relaxed fashion. "Will?"

"Oh, I don't know. You probably just licked it too much yesterday on the ride here. It must have cracked last night when you were asleep." The young Captain smirked. "How many times have I told you to stop licking your lips? Well, now you've done it." He leaned closer to have a better look at the offending lip and whistled. "And it is a beauty, my friend. Why do you have to be the best at everything you do? I would have thought in this instance, at least, you would try to be a little less of a perfectionist, huh, Danny?"

O'Shea narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Wilson's lengthy answer. Whenever Will truly did not know something, he was usually succinct in his response. But whenever he was trying to hide information, he tended to ramble on. _Just like yesterday when Sgt. Carter asked how long we'd been prisoners. He was trying to cover for me so I wouldn't have to answer._ He opened his mouth to confront his friend with this tiny important detail, when a strange movement caught his eye.

The unknown sergeant, instead of returning to the barracks or talking to some other prisoner, was striding toward the Kommandant. Danny watched, amazed, as the sergeant approached the Colonel without any problems and said something to the German officer, who nodded and motioned for him to wait there as he returned to the administration building. Moments later, an older gentlemen in a long, dark coat and carrying a black bag appeared beside the Kommandant and approached the sergeant. Together, the three men walked quickly towards Barracks 2 and entered it. Staring at the door, dumbfounded by the strange sight, he saw Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau go inside directly behind them. 

More than a little curious, he hurried to the barracks' door, breaching the doorway just in time to see all of the men go inside the mysterious door at the other end of the building. He halted for a second, unsure whether or not to continue, when Newkirk stepped back outside the door and halted, seeing O'Shea looking in his direction.

They eyed each other silently for a moment. Then Newkirk leaned back against the door and crossed his arms in a manner that could not have been more clear than if the man had said aloud, "Forget it, mate. This ain't none of your business." It was clear to Danny that whatever was going on inside that other room, he was neither invited nor wanted.

He met the steely gray-blue eyes of Newkirk and nodded. _All right then_, he thought to himself, _I'll hold off for now._ _But even though you may have won this round, that doesn't mean you've won the fight. _He reached for the door and limped back out into the early morning light, filled with even more questions and an insatiable curiosity to know what was behind that door. He knew he'd eventually find out what was in that room. He'd just have to be patient.

**********************

Captain Campbell Wilson was on a mission.

He'd spent the few hours since morning roll call meeting the other prisoners, getting to know the many new faces, and asking ordinary questions. He had met several friendly souls who had been happy to show the "newbie" the ins and outs of Stalag 13. They talked about the Kommandant, the guards, their hobbies, their duties, themselves, and, of course, each other. It had been a fruitful time for Wilson. He'd gained information from not only what the prisoners had been willing to tell, but also from what they had pointedly NOT told him. 

Now his mission, as he stalked across the compound, was to find Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. He wanted to discuss his ideas and observations with his friend, who had a sharp mind. His steps slowed slightly as he remembered last night. _I hope he's doing okay, especially after that nightmare last night. For that matter, I don't really know if I'm all right. He scared me half to death!_ Then he remembered the shocked look on Danny's face when he had discovered his cut lip hours before. It was strange how Danny could remember his nightmares vividly one time and then not at all the next.

His long strides had taken him to the end of Barracks 2, and rounding the corner, he spied O'Shea sitting in the exact same place that he had sat yesterday after they had first arrived. _Typical,_ he thought with an inward smile, _Danny is a creature of habit_.

"Hey, Lieutenant. You have a minute?" He called cheerfully. 

O'Shea looked up at Capt. Wilson with a smirk. "Well, I don't know, Captain. You see, I have so many pressing things to do right now, but I guess I can squeeze you in."

Wilson laughed as he sat down beside his friend. "Oh, thanks, Danny. That's so nice of you." He lowered his voice. "I've been talking to some of the others, and I need a sounding board for my ideas. You up to it?"

"Sure. The only thing wrong with me is a split lip, and that isn't going to interfere with anything."

"Okay." He paused, uncertain which subject to discuss first. "I talked to several men, officers and enlisted, to see what I could find out about our new home here. I heard quite a bit but it's what I didn't hear that puzzles me. I didn't hear a thing about any attempted escapes. Not a single word. What do you think about that?" 

"Will, you've heard the rumors: no one has ever escaped from Stalag 13." Danny's green eyes narrowed in confusion at the simple explanation.

"Yeah, I know. But to never even try…surely someone has tried to escape. Some of these guys have been here for over two years." Wilson crossed his arms. "Are you going to tell me that during that entire time, no one has ever tried to get out? Geez, Danny! We've both known guys that have gone wire-happy and tried to blitz out of Stalag 8 after only a few months! And after two years…?" He shook his head. "I don't believe it. Somebody would have tried."

Wilson watched Danny as he wrestled with the information. The lieutenant's eyes took on a far away look as if his mind had left his body to go soaring about in the heavens, searching for the answer. He recalled with a slight shudder how frightened he had been the first time he had seen it; he'd thought that his friend had let go of reality again and had fallen back into a catatonic state. But now…well, he was still uncomfortable when it happened but he was used to seeing it. 

Danny blinked and seemed to ground himself. "I don't know for sure, Will. All I can figure is that someone (1) has tried and is too embarrassed to admit it, (2) truly doesn't know, or (3) won't or can't tell you. Who knows, maybe he's under orders not to discuss it with any newbies. You know how suspicious people can be of new arrivals, even of transferred prisoners."

"Exactly. You just brought up my second idea." At O'Shea's confused look, he repeated his friend's words back to him. "You said 'under orders'. Well, my question is this – if he is under orders, then who's giving them?"

"Oh, that's simple enough. The SAO – Senior Allied Officer. Like Major Conner back in Stalag 8."

"Right, but where is he? Why haven't we seen him? Major Conner always interviewed new arrivals as soon as they were brought into camp. I once asked him why, and he said that it was his duty to meet all new prisoners and to try to discern if they were German plants. The major met each new flier that first day no matter how late or early it was. Always. He met me within the first twenty minutes, and I arrived about three or four in the morning. I'm sure he met you – " He cut himself off abruptly in mid sentence, appalled at what he'd nearly said.

Wilson cursed himself as he watched Danny's face pale and turn away from him. "I – I 'm sorry, Danny. I wasn't thinking." He began to reach out a hand to touch his friend's shoulder, but quickly pulled it back. He didn't want to make things worse.

A few moments passed as Wilson let O'Shea regain his composure. At last, Danny took a deep breath and said quietly, "It's okay, Will."

He scrutinized the young man before him, noting the freckles that still stood out so prominently on his white face and the way he'd clasped his hands tightly to keep them from shaking. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

He wavered briefly on whether he should continue, but then came to the conclusion that the discussion might take his mind off of his own problems. "All right. Where was I? Oh, yeah – the SAO. Why haven't we been interviewed by the SAO? From what Major Conner told me, all SAO's do the same thing. Heck, they've even been trained for it."

He leaned closer to O'Shea, so his voice would not carry to some of the others nearby. "And this is the weird thing, Danny. Not one of those prisoners mentioned the Senior POW – not by name or rank. Nothing!"

"But how can that be?" The young lieutenant frowned, narrowing his gaze in thought. "They have to have one here – it's regulation. Someone has to be in command. But who…and why…" He glanced over at the Captain. "Give me some time to think it over. Maybe I can come up with something."

"Okay. If you want time, you've got it." Wilson smiled. "What else have we got?"

*******************

That night, an hour after the evening count, a freezing northern wind began to blow, howling through the camp like a lioness in search of her young. The temperature dropped abruptly over forty degrees in the span of an hour, changing from the comfortable sixties it had been all day to the frigid twenties. The drastic weather change forced the prisoners inside to escape the bitter wind; they abandoned their baseball and volleyball games, gardening, and sunning, fleeing into the barracks in droves. The weather had been blown back a season, from spring to winter, with a vengeance. Not long after the wind started gusting, snow began to fall. Within a couple of hours, the ground was covered with five inches of wet, chilly snow.

Andrew Carter slipped out of the Colonel's room where he had been on watch, replaced by Kinch. He had finally been able to pry the black radioman from Hogan's side. It had been weeks since Kinch had been away from his friend for more than three or four hours in a row, during which he would grab a quick bit to eat and take a brief nap. The constant tension, lack of proper rest, and insufficient meals were taking their toll on him. Carter grimaced. If something didn't happen soon…if the Colonel didn't start getting better…_I don't know how much longer Kinch can last. A person can only take so much before he collapses. _He felt relieved that Kinch had finally gotten a good eight hours of sleep in a row and two decent (by POW standards) meals. However, he'd had to have Newkirk and LeBeau join him in convincing the Sergeant to take the much delayed break.

He glanced about the crowded room. Several men, including Newkirk and LeBeau, were playing cards at the table in the center. He smiled when a sudden heated outburst in French elicited a "Speak the King's good English, mate!" from Newkirk. This brought a round of laughter from the surrounding men, as well as another comment from LeBeau in his native language. _Wow, Louis really sounds mad! He must be on a loosing streak. _

As Carter moved towards his bunk at the other end of the room, he spotted Captain Wilson sprawled out on his bed, sound asleep. _No wonder he's tired. He didn't get much sleep last night._ The Captain shivered slightly in his sleep as a fierce gust of wind blew through the camp, stretching its long, freezing fingers into every crack in the building. Just as he was about to climb into his top bunk, he happened to glance in the bunk above Captain Wilson. He halted in surprise, right hand gripping the wooden frame, right foot placed on Newkirk's mattress ready to push himself up. 

Lieutenant O'Shea's bunk was empty.

He stared at the mattress still neatly made from that morning. It was obvious that the Lieutenant had not been in his bunk all day. Carter tried to shove down the unease that filled him. _He's probably just playing cards with the guys_, he told himself. He turned towards the rather large gathering, searching for the red-head, but he couldn't spot him. _Hmm, maybe he just stepped away from the game for a minute. _Wandering over to the table, he sidled up to Newkirk and tapped his shoulder.

The British corporal looked up briefly, then glanced back down, distracted by his card hand. "Whot do you want, Carter? I'm kind o' busy 'ere."

"Oh…sorry. Um, was Lieutenant O'Shea playing cards with you all?"

"Naw. I 'aven't seen 'im all evenin', mate." Newkirk slapped down a queen of spades and grinned from ear to ear. "HA! Beat that, ya whiny Frenchman!"

Carter walked away as LeBeau muttered something in French and threw his cards down on the table. Now feeling quite concerned for the Lieutenant, he stepped up to the sleeping Captain, debating whether or not to disturb him. _If I wake him up and nothing's wrong, I could get in trouble. But from what I saw last night, I think he'd want to know if something wasn't right. He and the Lieutenant seem to be close friends. _

Still unsure of himself, he shook the Captain's khaki shoulder lightly and softly called his name. "Captain? Captain Wilson? Wake up, sir."

The sergeant jumped as the captain groaned and opened his eyes. He blinked, his blue eyes still clouded with sleep. "Carter?" he mumbled.

"Yes, sir." 

"Why did you wake me up?" he asked, confused. He rubbed his face with both hands, trying to wake up, and slowly sat up. "Do you need something?"

Carter took a deep breath. "I'm not sure, sir. I didn't know whether or not I should wake you up, but I thought you'd want to know. I'm probably just overreacting and all, but I haven't seen him since roll call, and I don't know where he is, and I hated to wake you up, but since it involves Lieutenant O'Shea, I just thought – "

"O'Shea?" Wilson interrupted. "What about Lieutenant O'Shea?" Carter opened his mouth to answer, but Wilson continued. "And, sergeant, and go slow. My brain isn't quite awake yet."

"All right, sir." Carter paused and started again, slower this time. "I can't find Lieutenant O'Shea, and I don't know where he is. I've asked around, and no one here has seen him since evening roll call."

"What time is it?" The captain looked at his watch, and his eyes widened in alarm. "Four hours?! I can't believe I – " He sat up straight in his bunk, barely missing the beam above his head. "You said that no one has seen O'Shea for four hours?"

Shaking his head, Carter replied, "No, sir. Could he have gone to another barracks to see someone?"

"No. If anything, he's probably still outside." 

"Outside?! In this weather?"

"What do you mean?" Wilson frowned. "It must be in the sixties out there. He'll be fine. I'll go find him in a little while if he doesn't come back soon. It won't be long before lights out."

"Sir, don't you know? It's below freezing outside, and it's been snowing for the last couple of hours!"

Captain Wilson sat utterly still on his bunk, frozen in place for just a moment, and then jumped into action. Practically leaping from his bunk, he wrestled into his leather bomber jacket, grabbed his blanket from the bed, and bolted for the door. Carter stood still for a moment. Then he hurriedly pulled on his own jacket, and raced out after the Captain into the blinding snow.

TBC…


	7. One Long Night

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All of the characters in this story are owned by whoever holds the rights for Hogan's Heroes. In other words, not me. Campbell Wilson and Daniel O'Shea, however, are all mine.

Author's Notes: Okay. When I started this chapter, I never dreamed it would turn out exactly like this (or this long). But the idea took over and, before I knew what was happening, this chapter was written. It's been done for a while, but I wanted to proof read it before I posted. Sorry about the delay. Oh, and for those of you who are wondering how long the Heroes can keep Colonel Hogan a secret…well, you'll find out in the next chapter. I guess I should also say that I have no medical training so don't try any of this at home! Please, take a second to leave a review or send me an email at adalanta14@yahoo.com. Thanks!

Chapter Seven: One Long Night

__

Dear God, please tell me I'm not too late! 

The cry rang through Campbell Wilson's mind, echoed quickly by his heart. His soul cringed in terror as he clutched the limp body closer to his own, staggering as quickly as possible through the blinding, swirling snow.

"Just a few more yards," he gasped aloud, though to reassure himself or the blanket covered bundle he carried, he did not know. He was not a weak man. In fact, he had been one of the strongest men in his squadron. But twelve long months in a prisoner of war camp, subsisting on small, stale meals and surviving with enforced inactivity had weakened his body, lowering both his weight and muscle tone. He nearly groaned with relief as he came to the door of Barracks Two.

Unable to open the door because of his awkward burden, he balanced cautiously against the doorframe and kicked the wooden door loudly several times. Suddenly, the door opened, spilling warm, bright light out onto him. He blinked at the brightness, his eyes tearing slightly, trying to adapt from the darkness they had become accustomed to. As he stepped inside, his eyes adjusted just enough to identify his erstwhile doorman. _Thank God! Carter!_ The young man stood only an arm's length away, already holding a blanket to wrap around the silent body he cradled.

The last ten feet seemed like a mile to Wilson as he stumbled towards his bunk and gingerly laid down the still body of Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. As he straightened his aching back and stamped his numb feet, he watched the young sergeant gently wrap the blanket around his friend, and, for the first time, he got a terrifyingly clear picture of the Lieutenant's condition.

O'Shea's head lolled limply with the slightest movement of his boneless body. Wilson reached out a chilled hand to support his head and nearly cursed. O'Shea's skin felt like marble – cold and white. Even to his frozen hands, the body was like ice. He moved his now unsteady hand to the bloodless neck and found a sluggish, weak pulse. Alarmed, he raised one of O'Shea's eyelids, only to find the green eye, pupils almost fully dialated, staring fixedly straight up at the ceiling. Wilson swallowed the large lump that threatened to choke him. He didn't have much time. If he was going to save his friend's life, he needed to move fast.

"He's hypothermic," he stated shortly, speaking in rapid, clipped sentences, so the men around him wouldn't hear his teeth chattering. "I need warm blankets – lots of them. Hot water, too. I'll get him out of these wet clothes and into something else. Hurry!"

By now, a ring of concerned onlookers surrounded both himself and Carter. Upon hearing his sharp orders, the silent prisoners shot off in ten different directions at once, snatching blankets, shoving wood into the stove, and filling various pots and pans with cold water from a nearby _wasser_ (water) bucket. He spared them a brief glance, touched by their willingness to help a virtual stranger. After all, he and O'Shea had only arrived the afternoon before; they had been in camp barely twenty-four hours. 

Carter's soft voice brought his attention back to the issue at hand. "How is he, Captain?"

Wilson shook his dark head wearily. "Not good, sergeant. Look at him." He gestured down at the pale, still body. "He's not even shivering. His body has nearly given up. We've got to get him warmed up quickly without throwing him into shock." He began to ease the covers off of O'Shea to reach the cold, frozen clothes beneath. "Carter, could you work on his boots?" 

__

That should keep him busy for a while – those shoelaces are frozen into one solid mass of ice and laces. I should have enough time to – He broke off the thought as he finally burrowed down far enough to touch the wet, stiff uniform. He grimaced in frustration and pain as he tried to undo the buttons on the uniform top, his fingers refusing to cooperate. They felt wooden, uncoordinated. 

Panic welled up inside him, and for a long moment, it was all he could do to close his eyes and try to regain some semblance of control. _Get a hold of yourself!_ He muttered angrily in his mind. _You're not helping Danny by acting this way. Besides, you're supposed to set an example to the other men. _He remembered a quote from the Army Air Corps Officer's Manual – "An officer is at all times to remain calm and in control. He is to be an example to all subordinates in his manner and dress."

He took a deep, steadying breath and opened his eyes, ready to do whatever he was needed to help his friend. He rubbed his frozen fingers together to try and regain some feeling, then attacked O'Shea's shirt buttons once more. As he labored over the lieutenant's upper body, he could hear Carter mumbling to himself down below, wrestling with the ice-incrusted boots. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the young sergeant struggling with the laces. It did not look like he was having any success.

Within minutes, Wilson had managed to strip O'Shea of his long-sleeve shirt and had instantly covered his still body with a warmed blanket that one of the other prisoners had set beside him moments before. Relief swept through him like a warm, summer breeze. He had finished his task while Carter was still occupied with his own. No one had seen – 

Carter glanced up, his blue eyes desperate. "I didn't want to cut his laces, sir, but I don't think these boots are coming off any other way. They're frozen solid!"

He instantly nodded his permission. Bootlaces were hard to come by in P.O.W. camps for some odd reason. _Who knows,_ he thought darkly, m_aybe the Germans are afraid we would try to hang ourselves with them._ Finding laces for O'Shea would be a problem, but weighing the condition of a pair of laces with the life of his best friend – there was no comparison at all. He would just have to scrounge around somewhere or barter with someone to get another set.

At the Captain's nod, the blond man pulled out a small knife from his back pocket. Quickly sawing through the laces, he tugged off the wet boots, socks and pants following soon thereafter. 

Corporal Newkirk came up beside Carter just as he was finishing, holding a couple of brown blankets warmed by the stove. Once Carter was done wrapping the lieutenant, he pulled him a few feet away. Wilson watched the two men for a moment, puzzled by their private conversation. Shaking his head, he turned his attention back to his friend.

"Danny. Come on, Danny, w-wake up." He didn't really expect a response, but somewhere in the very back of his mind, he had still hoped for one. He was not surprised when Danny didn't reply. He tried shaking him a bit, but that didn't work either. O'Shea was completely unresponsive. _All right, Danny. You're going to make me work here, aren't you? Fine. Just don't give up on me, okay, kid?_

Leaning awkwardly between the two bunks, Wilson set to work rubbing Danny's extremities, working his way slowly up and down each arm starting at the hands, doing the same with his legs. He cursed softly to himself at the aching in his own hands, still sore from the time he had spent outside looking for O'Shea. 

All the time he massaged his friend's limbs, he kept up a steady stream of conversation. "N-now, listen, Danny. I don't mind you going outside to get away from everybody, b-but why couldn't you stay a little c-closer to home, huh? How come you h-had to abandon y-your usual spot outside our hut for B-barracks Eight? Honestly, is t-the v-view that much b-better o-over t-there?" 

He stopped as another wave of cold air swept over him, making him shiver uncontrollably. He huddled in on himself, trying to warm himself slightly before he resumed his actions. He was so cold he could barely feel his body. Everything felt numb. His eyelids slid closed on their own, forcing him to grab hold of the bunk frame to keep from collapsing. He barely heard the voice talking to him or the hand that led him over to a nearby chair and sat him down. Looking up with blurry eyes and clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering, he was surprised to see a black man looming over him. 

"Captain Wilson?" the black man asked in a firm voice. "Sir, can you hear me?"

He blinked dazedly. The voice seemed muffled, far away. He shook his head, trying to clear it and reeled dizzily to the side. He would have fallen off the chair if someone hadn't caught him. He closed his eyes, too tired to speak, half listening to the voices that swirled around him.

"Carter, get his uniform off."

"Geez, Kinch. His skin's like ice! I'm gonna need some help here."

"I will help." A pause, during which Wilson vaguely felt someone pulling at his shirt. "Mon Dieu, Carter is right! This uniform is frozen stiff!" 

The next thing he knew, his shirt was gone, and he was shivering violently. "Newkirk! Get those blankets over here!" A voice shouted nearby.

"I'm comin', mate. Just waitin' for the last one to get warm." Suddenly, something warm and dry touched his bare skin. He let out a gasp of relief as his freezing body was engulfed with warmth. He was so mesmerized by the warmth around his shoulders that he did not even realize that someone had removed his wet pants and boots as well and swathed him in warm blankets. Slowly, his trembling eased. 

It was only as a warm cup was placed to his lips with someone urging him to drink that he opened his eyes. A handsome, black man with chocolate brown eyes smiled slightly at him when he saw his eyes were open. "That's it, Captain. Drink some of this if you can. It'll help." 

He pried apart his chattering teeth and took a large gulp of sweet, warm liquid. Some of the liquid slipped out between his numb lips and slid down his chin, a warm trickle that felt wonderful. The liquid seemed to flow right down his throat, through his chest, and into his stomach, bringing warmth to every part of his insides along the way. _Mmmm, hot chocolate. I haven't had that since I was a kid in upstate New York. _Slowly, the fog seemed to dissipate from his mind and his eyes, leaving them clearer and sharper. Several more sips followed before he could manage to ask the question that had been floating vaguely around in his mind the entire time.

"W-who are you?" he asked the black man, now sitting beside him at the table.

The man smiled again. "I guess we haven't really met, have we, sir? I'm Sergeant Kinchloe, but you can call me Kinch if you want. Everyone else does." 

Wilson nodded and held out a less than steady hand in greeting. "Captain Campbell Wilson." Kinch shook his hand briefly, allowing him to pull it back inside his warm cocoon of blankets. 

The tall sergeant looked at him with concern. "Are you feeling better, sir? We were kind of worried about you for a few minutes there. You practically collapsed." He paused for a second before adding, "You know, Captain, you really should have taken care of yourself. Exposure is no small thing."

"I know, but I had to take care of O'Shea. He's my responsibility…and my friend." He twisted his entire body around to check on the lieutenant and was relieved to see Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau working on him, rubbing his limbs and piling on warmer blankets. He couldn't see his friend because of the men surrounding him. "How is he?" He turned back to see the sergeant staring at him with a strange look on his face.

"He's begun to shiver again, which is a good sign." He cleared his throat. "I think you should go lay down as well, sir. It's been a long night, and your body's taken quite a beating."

Wilson shook his head emphatically. "No. I'm not leaving him until he's over the shakes. He'd do the same for me."

Kinch chuckled. "Somehow I thought you were going to say that. Well, since I obviously can't order you to rest, at least stay here until you finish your drink."

Looking down, the Captain was surprised to see that the mug of hot chocolate that sat in front of him by his right hand was completely filled to the brim. He glanced up and met Kinch's eyes, nodding. "All right, sergeant. Until my drink is gone."

Not long afterwards, Wilson finished up the last drop of his hot chocolate. He shuffled over to his kit by his bunk and pulled on his now dry uniform. It was not only dry, but also warm, confirming his suspicion that it had been left to dry by the stove. Once he his uniform back on, he grabbed a blanket for his shoulders and sat down by the shivering, shuddering body lying on his bunk.

His heart clenched seeing Danny like he was now - his face pinched tight with pain, teeth chattering, his whole body shivering uncontrollably. To be honest, there wasn't that much he could do for his friend, except keep piling on the blankets and talk to him. _But I can at least do that much. It's better than nothing. _He took over for LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter, thanking them, and then ordering them to bed. He could tell they were all tired, especially Carter. _Well,_ he considered,_ Carter was out with me searching for Danny. I only sent him back to get things started here after we found him. _

"Sir?" 

"Yes, Carter?"

"Can I pull up a chair and sit over here for a while?" Carter looked down at his feet nervously. Wilson couldn't help but feel touched by this slight, young man's devotion. "I won't be any trouble, sir. I'd just…rather stay close."

"Are you sure you want to do that, sergeant? These chairs aren't that comfortable."

Carter snickered. "Neither is my bunk, sir."

Wilson laughed at that and nodded to the young man. "All right, Carter. Pull up a chair." 

********************

A faint, rustling sound drew Sergeant Andrew Carter out of his light doze. For just the briefest second, his sleepy mind thought he was back in his old bedroom on his parents' farm, listening to one of the milk cows grazing beneath his window. He tried to fall back asleep and snuggled up underneath the warm, blue and yellow patchwork quilt that his grandmother had given him on his twelfth birthday.

Instead, he toppled to the floor.

Shocked, his eyes flew open, taking in everything there was to see - specifically, the short, stubby legs of the rickety wooden chair that he now lay beside and the figure of a man, leaning over another person's bunk, staring at him in puzzlement. In the space of a few heartbeats, reality slammed back into him. 

He felt his face flush as he stuttered, "M-morning, Captain Wilson, sir." He pulled himself into a sitting position on the floor, trying to look completely normal.

The corners of Wilson's mouth turned up as he replied in a hushed voice, "Morning, Carter. Are you all right? That was a rather rude awakening."

"Yes, sir. I'm just fine."

The Captain nodded and turned his attention back to the man on the bed. Carter jumped as he heard the same rustling sound as he had in his dream. A strong gust of wind blew through the camp and under the door, slipping its cold, frigid fingers around his slight body. Shivering, he stood up, realizing that sitting on the floor in a drafty barracks in freezing weather was not a smart thing to do. 

As he stood there, he glanced to his right and studied the man lying on the lower bunk. Lieutenant O'Shea was moving about restlessly, tossing his head from side to side, his near constant movements beneath the mound of blankets piled atop him creating the unique rustling sound that had awakened Carter in the first place. The lieutenant's youthful face had regained much of its color but still looked far too pale to completely reassure him. 

The young sergeant's eyes swept around the room to see who else was awake and might be listening. It appeared that everyone else was asleep. Rubbing his burning eyes, he looked down at his watch and was surprised to see that it was three o'clock in the morning. _But the lights are still on. Why would the guards let us keep the lights on all night long? Surely they would have busted in and forced us to turn off the lights._ He paused, wondering about this unprecedented action. Another gust of wind made him shiver. 

"Sir, is it still snowing outside?" He asked quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone.

Again the Captain nodded, though this time his gaze did not shift from the figure on the bed. "Yes. At least, it was the last time I checked a few hours ago."

__

Ah, ha! He crowed triumphantly in his mind. _The snow is coming down so heavily that the guards can't even tell that the lights are still on! Holy cow! That's never happened before!_ Ever since he had arrived at Stalag 13, he had never seen such a blizzard. 

A soft moan brought his mind back to the present and the unconscious man on the bunk before him. The lieutenant shuddered in his sleep, a long shiver that wracked his entire frame from head to toe causing the blankets to slide off of his shoulders a little. He watched Wilson quickly, yet tenderly, pull the blankets back up to his neck. O'Shea shifted and mumbled weakly. 

Carter stepped closer to the Captain, watching the dark-haired man's face for his reaction to O'Shea's behavior. His face was tight with worry, his blue eyes dark with concern. And Wilson wasn't the only one concerned right now, either. "Captain, how is he? I mean, how is he really?"

The Captain took a deep breath and slowly let it out. "He's better than he was. His temperature is just about back to normal I think. The best thing right now is for him to rest, but…" The bundle of blankets moved again, and he paused until the movement ceased. "He's sleeping but he not resting, if you understand what I mean."

Carter's brow wrinkled with confusion at that last comment and opened his mouth to speak, but someone else beat him to it.

"J-jesse?" O'Shea muttered, still stuttering from the shivers that shook him every few minutes. "Jesse? Where are you?"

"Shhh, Danny. It's okay. Go back to sleep." Wilson soothed the unsettled officer. He placed a hand lightly on O'Shea's forehead, searching for fever. He frowned.

"What is it?" Carter asked, his voice hushed. "Does he have a fever?" He looked down at the pale face, not seeing any visible signs of fever - he wasn't sweating and his face was not flushed. 

"No. He's not delirious. I think it's a -"

"Jesse!" the restless man called out louder. "No! Don't do it!" He abruptly started to struggle beneath the blankets, trying to shove them off, to get out from underneath.

Carter moved quickly to restrain O'Shea, reaching out to grab hold of his legs that were kicking weakly at the blankets that weighed down his body. 

"No!" Wilson snapped, just as he was about to touch the writhing body. "Don't touch him!"

"Sir?!" Too shocked by the sharp command to move, he froze where he was.

Wilson blinked as if coming out of a trance, then gently placed his hand on O'Shea's red hair, smoothing it back from him face, now slightly flushed from his exertions. "Just…don't touch him, Carter," he repeated in a softer voice. He winced as the sleeping man jerked away from his touch like he was the enemy. "Danny, listen to me…it's okay…you need to wake up."

O'Shea opened his eyes, staring directly into Wilson's. Carter finally unfroze and joined the Captain at the head of the bunk. He was about to voice his relief when he got a clear look at the lieutenant's eyes. They were glassy, overflowing with utter terror and agonizing pain. Carter's breath caught in his throat as he gazed into the unfocused, green depths. He was looking into the eyes of a captured, beaten animal that knew it was about to die.

"No…no, he doesn't know…I swear…" O'Shea cried, now shaking uncontrollably, his trembling body radiating a tangible fear that seemed to fill the entire barracks with a suffocating stench. 

Carter was vaguely aware of the movement in the barracks behind him, of other men waking up to see what all the commotion was about. He heard Newkirk's distinctive voice call out sleepily, "What the bloody 'ell is goin' on?" but was too busy to answer him.

Wilson was still talking softly to the lieutenant, trying to reach inside his nightmare-trapped mind, but it wasn't working. The young man continued to struggle against the blankets that surrounded him, his glazed eyes wide with horror. Suddenly, his tone of voice changed and broken pleas tumbled out between his white, bloodless lips. "Please…I can't tell…you d-don't…un-understand…I can't…"

Breaking his intent gaze away from the pleading man on the bunk for a second, Carter glanced over to his left at Wilson and was startled to see the man's blue eyes glinting suspiciously. He looked…helpless…powerless to stop what was happening. In that one instant, Carter knew that however much O'Shea was hurting, Wilson was hurting just as much. And he also knew that these men had been through this same ordeal before.

"NO!" O'Shea screamed in a strangled voice, his breaths coming in gasping sobs. "JESSE…DON'T!…I w-won't…l-let…you." Without warning, O'Shea's fist came free from the blankets, flying straight for Wilson's face. 

Time seemed to stand still.

Wilson was paralyzed, unmoving. Carter grabbed O'Shea's wrist just before it contacted with the Captain's face. 

O'Shea screamed "NOOOO!" in an agonized voice. His unfocused, panic-stricken eyes abruptly rolled back into head. His arm went limp in Carter's grasp. His body slumped back onto the thin mattress as he passed out.

Carter just stood there, unable to move. He had never seen anything like what he had just witnessed. _Except for that time with Colonel Hogan,_ he reminded himself faintly. He shuddered involuntarily just from the memory of that nightmarish episode. He briefly closed his eyes to try to calm his thumping heart. When he opened his eyes, he glanced down at the white, limp wrist he was clutching…

…and just stared.

O'Shea's right wrist had a thick, red scar that surrounded it completely. It looked familiar, like he had seen it before…but where? How? His fuzzy brain couldn't remember. He was still staring uncomprehendingly when he saw and felt the arm pull from his grasp. At first, he thought that O'Shea must have woken up, but belatedly realized that it was Captain Wilson who had removed the arm. 

He raised his eyes to meet the Captain's, but Wilson would not meet his gaze, keeping his focus on the unconscious body of Daniel O'Shea. Carter observed the man's actions as Wilson quickly placed the bare arm on the mattress and began to cover it gently with the blankets. 

But something was wrong. The Captain's movements were furtive, suspicious, like he was trying to hide something. Then, as he lifted the blankets back to put O'Shea's arm underneath, Danny got his first glimpse of the lieutenant's chest -

A chest that was covered in scars. 

Long thin scars covered his entire chest, as if some crazy person had attacked him with a blood, red pen and drawn lines all over him. There was also several oddly shaped red scars, some small, some large, that marked his chest over the thin scars. It was a horrifying sight. 

Wilson bowed his head wearily as he heard Carter gasp, but then raised it again, this time turning to look the startled sergeant directly in the eye. Carter stared right back, unflinching. Finally, when Carter couldn't take looking into that haunted blue gaze one more second, he shifted his attention to the pale man on the bed, now covered to his neck with blankets. "What happened to him?" 

Wilson followed Carter's gaze. "That's for him to tell you, sergeant." His tone of voice said that this was a command, not a request. The Captain paused, his voice softer. "I made a promise to him - never to tell. Some of it, well…some of it he hasn't even told me." 

Carter nearly jumped when he felt Wilson's hand touch his shoulder. When he had Carter's full attention, he continued, his voice hoarse with concealed emotion. "I trust that what you saw will be kept between you and me. Danny - Lieutenant O'Shea - would be horrified if he knew that you'd seen his scars." 

Carter nodded, quick to reassure the tired man. "Yes, sir. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone."

"Thank you, Sergeant Carter." He reached down and absently pushed back a few strands of hair from O'Shea's face. Clearing his throat, he changed back into command gear. "I know it's pretty late, well, I guess you could say pretty early, but I think we should both try to get some sleep. It'll be time for roll call in a few hours. The lieutenant should be fine for the rest of the night." He pulled himself slowly up onto the top bunk which was normally O'Shea's. "Goodnight, sergeant." He said softly.

"Night, Captain." Carter turned and slowly made his way the few feet over to his bunk, feeling too tired to pull himself up onto it. Just as he was about to scramble up, he felt a hand tap him on the chest. Too worn out to jump, he lowered his hands and looked down, straight into Peter Newkirk's curious face.

Pointing over Carter's shoulder at the bunk he had only moments ago left, Newkirk put a finger to his lips in the universal sign for quiet. Carter leaned against the bunk and waited. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long. As soon as the Captain had settled on the top bunk and rolled over, instantly falling asleep, Newkirk spoke. 

"What 'appened, Carter?" Newkirk asked quietly. 

"Nightmare." He replied shortly.

"Yeah, a bloody awful one. I thought for a few minutes that someone was killin' 'im, the way 'e was screamin'." The British corporal glanced over at the silent man on the lower bunk, now in a deep sleep. "Poor bloke. Is he alright?"

"Yeah. I think he will be. His temperature's just about back to normal. Captain Wilson thinks that if he just gets some rest and stays warm, then he shouldn't have any problems." Carter's voice was neutral, and as he finished his brief report on O'Shea's condition, he hopped up onto his bunk, thankful to be able to stretch out. And, even though he was exhausted both emotionally and physically, he could not help but go over the recent events in his mind.

He didn't really believe everything he'd just told his friend. True, the lieutenant shouldn't have any physical problems from nearly freezing to death, but he wasn't sure if he would be all right. _With nightmares like that, how could anyone be "all right"? _He shuddered slightly, the echo of O'Shea's cries bouncing around his skull like a pin pong ball on too much coffee.

Still, Captain Wilson knew what to do. He'd been basically calm and had handled the situation without panicking, even though it had obviously unnerved him. He had known exactly what to do. And the way he had treated O'Shea…with dignity tinged with tenderness. Besides that, he was honorable; he had refused to tell Carter what O'Shea had told him.

Lying there with his eyes closed, a single thought floated through his mind, wispy and cloud-like. _Gee, it would be great if London would send someone like Captain Wilson to help with Colonel Hogan._

His eyes snapped open as he bolted upright in bed, his mind whirling from the thought. _What if London had sent Captain Wilson to help? But if they had, why hadn't he said something, asked about Colonel Hogan, pulled one of them aside and told them?_

He sat there for a while, trying to make sense of the idea. Every time he answered one question, another two would pop out of nowhere and blow his theory out of the sky. After a while, he gave up, deciding that he was too tired to make much sense anyway. _I'll talk it over with Kinch tomorrow. Maybe he can figure it out._ With that final, comforting thought, he laid back down and quickly fell asleep. 


	8. What Else Can Go Wrong?

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All of the familiar characters in this story belong to whoever owns the rights to Hogan's Heroes. That, of course, is not me. Too bad - I could certainly use the money.

Author's Notes: Thank you all so much for staying with me. I know this story is taking forever to finish, but I promise that it will get done. I really appreciate all of the reviews that have been left. Whenever I get writer's block or get discouraged, I get online and take a look at them. They've helped immensely! All comments are welcome, whether on the review board or as personal email to adalanta14@yahoo.com. 

Oh, and ColREHogan - I did received your kind note a while back (quite a while, actually) *_whacks herself upside the head*_, and I'm very sorry not to have replied. I hope you like this chapter as well. 

Chapter Eight – What Else Can Go Wrong?

"…he's the one."

Sergeant Andrew Carter finished, standing in the middle of Colonel Hogan's private quarters, nervously shuffling his boots, waiting for some sort of response. About ten minutes earlier, he'd pulled aside Newkirk and LeBeau and asked them to meet him here - finally. Kinch would already be inside the room, watching over the Colonel, so the meeting had been easy to arrange, unlike before. 

It had been three days since Lieutenant O'Shea had nearly frozen to death and since Carter's own revelation about Captain Wilson. He had intended to discuss his idea later that morning with the others, but the Kommandant had had other plans. Snow removal and road repair had delayed any possible meeting until today. Now, as the seconds ticked by, he began to wonder what everyone else was thinking. He didn't have to wait long.

"Carter, 'ave you gone round the bend?!" Newkirk exclaimed loudly from his perch atop Hogan's desk, breaking the silence. "That's bloody crazy!"

LeBeau scooted back his chair, walked around the table to Carter, and placed the back of his hand against the young sergeant's forehead.

Carter jerked away reflexively. "What are you doin', Louis?"

"I am checking to see if you are feverish. Perhaps, you have not yet recovered from your excursion that night in the blizzard?" The diminutive Frenchman gazed up at him, his dark eyes full of concern and tried to replace his hand.

He took a few steps back, out of LeBeau's reach. "C'mon, you guys! I'm serious!"

"No, you're crazy," added Newkirk. "Normally, there's a difference, but in your case, I think they're just about the same."

Carter danced out of the way as LeBeau came at him again, arm outstretched. _I'd better convince them really fast if I want to avoid being stuck in bed with another one of Louis's grandmother's recipes – I mean, remedies. _Glancing over at Kinch who was sitting silently next the Colonel, he met and held his gaze. The tall, black sergeant seemed to be deep in thought, only vaguely aware of the antics of the rest of the group. _Well, at least Kinch is taking me seriously, _he thought.

"Think about it, Kinch!" he pleaded. "London said they'd send us help, and not long after that, Captain Wilson arrived. That can't be just a coincidence!" 

"If what you say is true, mate," began the British corporal, "Why didn't 'e say somethin' already? 'E's been 'ere five days. Surely, 'e coulda told us by now."

"I don't know," he shrugged. "Maybe…maybe London didn't tell him who to contact, and he's just being careful. Kinch?" He looked over at Kinch hopefully.

The tech sergeant shook his head. "No, I doubt that. I'm sure they would have briefed him on Colonel Hogan's condition. And if they did that, then they surely would have informed him about the rest of us." He smiled, though Carter could see that it was thin and stretched. "It's a good idea, Carter, but I don't – "

"You didn't see how he handled Lieutenant O'Shea last night! He knew just what to do, how to talk to him – everything!" He burst out, barely noticing the shocked looks he was receiving for cutting off Kinchloe. "We can trust him. I know he can keep a secret – he wouldn't even tell – " The young man stopped abruptly, horrified that he had nearly broken his own promise to Wilson to keep O'Shea's secret. "I'm telling you, Kinch. Captain Wilson is the one we've been waiting for!"

The words ended in a near shout, echoing loudly about the small, enclosed room. His eyes widened in shock; he'd never yelled at Kinch before. For that matter, he'd never really yelled at anyone in his underground unit – ever. The tense silence stretched on and on as Carter, Newkirk, and LeBeau stood frozen in place, waiting to see how Kinch would react. Out of the corner of his eye, Carter saw Newkirk and LeBeau look at each other, then at himself, and lastly at Kinch. 

Carter cringed inwardly. Kinchloe was usually reserved and relaxed. Though he had a fiery temper, it took a lot to bring him to the boiling point. Carter couldn't help but wonder if his words would ignite the blaze. _He's been under so much pressure lately, with Colonel Hogan and the problems with the Underground. I can't believe I said that. What a stupid thing to do! _

Finally, Kinch sighed heavily, and, much to Carter's amazement (and relief), nodded in agreement. "All right, Carter. I'll radio London and see if I can confirm it."

"But what about the order for radio silence?" asked LeBeau worriedly.

"This is an emergency, LeBeau. If Wilson really is the man London sent us…" He glanced at the still, pale figure sleeping on the bunk beside him and then turned back to the others, a weary look etched onto his face. "Listen, I don't know how much longer he can last. He's barely eating or drinking anymore. He's wasting away, and there's nothing we can do about it." Carter's heart plummeted at the frustration and helplessness that laced Kinch's low voice. "We can't afford to wait any longer."

He slowly stood, "Louis, can you stay here and watch the Colonel until I get back?" 

"Of course, mon ami." The corporal nodded quickly. "I will not take my eyes off of him for a second."

"Thanks." Appearing reassured, he cracked the door open to make sure no one was in sight and then slipped out.

Carter watched as Kinch made his way over to the bunk in the corner, tapped it twice firmly, and then disappeared into the tunnel below. Closing his eyes briefly, the young sergeant uttered a quick prayer that he was right – that Captain Wilson would be able to help Colonel Hogan.

*************************

Kinch sat in his chair in the tunnel, staring at the radio before him with empty eyes. He was confused, so filled with emotions that he felt like he was on overload, not really sure what he felt and what he should feel. Sitting there, he tried in vain to sort out his feelings and untangle the mess within himself. Worry, fear, anger, doubt, and hope were just a few that he could name. The rest…_who knows_, he thought.

Blinking, he came out of his reverie and gazed around the tunnel like he was seeing it for the first time. _It's been a while since I've been down here. I…I've missed it. _He shook his head, scoffing at the thought._ Oh, you must be crazy. _But as hard as he tried to deny it, he knew it was the truth. _From the first moment I stepped foot down here, I've felt at ease. This is my job, my responsibility…my home. _

His eyes scanned the room – the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. They finally settled on the wall to his left, covered completely with flat boards to keep the dirt from coming loose and the wall from collapsing. His sharp gaze spotted the familiar one-inch gap in the boards not far from the floor, and, searching the ground, he found the tiny mound of dirt that had escaped its confines. 

__

Right now I feel like I'm the dirt trapped behind those boards, searching for a way out. Maybe Carter is right. Maybe Captain Wilson is that gap between the boards. He tried to find some measure of comfort in the thought, but he was too tired, physically and emotionally. Every day, he looked into the face of his friend, searching for some sign, some hint that he was recovering and would be back to normal. And every day, he lost a bit more hope, until he felt empty, like a well that had gone dry. 

He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, inhaling the damp, earthy smell of the tunnel into his lungs. The smell filled his body and gave his anxiety-ridden soul a measure of peace. He sat there a bit, just breathing in and out. After a few minutes, he reached out with his right hand, eyes still closed, and touched the radio, his long, nimble fingers gliding over the machine with care, an almost loving caress. The cool metal slid beneath his fingers, a comforting, familiar presence, like an old friend. 

Gradually opening his eyes, he brought himself back to the present and the reason he was down here - to contact London and either confirm or deny that Captain Wilson was the one they had sent to help Colonel Hogan. He placed his hand on the radio, ready to flip the switch that would bring it to life, but instead of turning it on…he froze. 

Clenching his teeth, he tried to force himself to start the radio. _What's wrong with me? _He wondered, staring at the rebellious hand in shock. _I need to do this - the Colonel's life depends on it. Why can't I move?_ Slowly, the truth began to form in his mind

He was afraid.

Afraid to hear that Wilson was not the one they'd been waiting anxiously for. Afraid to learn that London had failed in its attempt to help them. Afraid to have what little hope left in him be destroyed. Afraid to shatter completely the trust and faith of the three men waiting for him upstairs who meant the world to him. 

Fear was a powerful inhibitor. 

The fear paralyzed him, taking over most of the control he had over his own body. 

Kinch closed his eyes once again and concentrated on the image of his best friend lying upstairs in his bunk, trying to convince his subconscious that he needed to contact his superiors. It was a grueling task, but inch-by-inch he regained control. By the time he had conquered his fear (or at least contained it) and opened his eyes, he was damp with sweat and trembling. Still touching the radio, he placed his finger on the power switch, flipped it…

The radio before him partially exploded, sending intense flames and small pieces of metal into his hand. 

He tumbled over backwards in the chair, clutching his injured hand to his chest, staring at the smoldering wreck in horror. For a long moment, all he could do was stare, unable to believe what had just happened. Then, the pain hit him, along with reality, and he moaned loudly. 

"Damn it!" he groaned, cradling his burned and bleeding right hand with his left. "Not now…please, not now." He let his head fall back, resting it on the cold dirt floor, overwhelmed with pain and hopelessness. 

__

It's all my fault. The radio was my responsibility. His eyes fluttered shut, and he moaned again weakly. _Now we can't even contact London. It's all my fault,_ he repeated over and over in his mind, unaware that he was mumbling it aloud at the same time. 

"Kinch? Kinch, are you okay?" Carter's worried voice sounded farther down in the tunnel near the entrance. "Kinch! Where are you?" 

"Blimey! Somethin' musta shorted out the electricity down 'ere. 'Ere, Andrew, you better take a torch." 

"A _what_?"

"A torch - a flashlight. 'Urry up! Kinch might be 'urt."

Hurried footsteps sounded in the tunnel, quickly coming his way. Suddenly, a voice was shouting, "Kinch!" A hand touched his face, another checking his chest. 

"Thank God, 'e's still breathin'!" Newkirk's voice came from his right. "Damn, take a look at 'is hand! We better get 'im upstairs fast and get that checked out. Kinch? Kinch, can you hear me?" 

Before he could answer, someone took hold of his right arm and tried to move it. He cried out as a wave of pain engulfed his hand at the movement, weakly pushing away the person who held the arm. 

"Easy, Kinch, easy! We're just tryin' to 'elp you 'ere! I'm sorry if we 'urt ya, but you gotta be moved. Carter, take his other arm." 

Kinch felt himself being lifted to his feet and moaned loudly in pain, but allowed himself to be led down the tunnel. He only opened his eyes when they reached the tunnel entrance. The climb up was pure torture, but before he knew it, he was out of the tunnel and in the middle of Barracks Two, lying on Newkirk's bunk. He blinked. Carter and Newkirk were leaning over him, staring at his hand, a look of dismay on their faces. If he hadn't been in so much pain, he would have laughed. _Man, it must be pretty bad for them to look that worried. _He swallowed, finally looking down at his injured hand.

It was worse than he'd thought. His middle three fingers had been badly burned and were missing several layers of skin; the skin that remained was blackened and seemed ready to flake off at the slightest touch. His thumb and pinky had emerged relatively unscathed, although the same could not be said for his palm. The intense pain radiating from that area forced him to turn it sideways to inspect the damage. He hissed at the movement but followed through. His palm was a mess - covered in thick, red blood, several pieces of metal still imbedded in the tender flesh. He blanched at the thought of someone pulling them out and turned his eyes away. 

"Newkirk?" LeBeau's concerned voice called out from the end of the barracks, nearly causing him to jump in alarm. "Is Kinch all right?"

Kinch looked up at Newkirk and met his blue eyes, shaking his head slightly side to side. The British corporal nodded knowingly, obviously remembering the Frenchman's squeemishness at the sight of blood. "Carter, I need you to get me some bandages and a shot of morphine from the Colonel's quarters. Tell Louis what 'appened. But don't take too long. I'll need your 'elp with this." 

Carter gulped and hurried off to do his task. Newkirk looked back down at Kinch. "You know they've gotta come out, mate. We gotta get you fixed up." He bit his lower lip, his face filled with compassion. "It's gonna 'urt like 'ell, so I'll give you a shot and make sure you're out before we do anythin'. I've gotta go get a few things before Carter gets back. Just close your eyes and try to relax." 

As soon as Newkirk moved away from his side, Kinch let his eyes slide shut, too exhausted to keep them open a moment longer. He drifted in and out of consciousness, waiting for the procedure to begin. He heard Carter return and speak to Newkirk but could not understand the words. Finally, he felt the prick of a needle in his upper arm, and the slight sting of the morphine as it entered his body. The world around him faded away.

*************************

"Ummm, Kinch? I don't think you should be up quite yet."

Kinch glared up at Carter but otherwise ignored what he had to say as he climbed shakily to his feet, his uninjured left hand grasping the wooden bunkframe tightly to steady himself. He glanced down momentarily at his right hand, swathed in bandages; the morphine had nearly worn off, and what was previously only a dull ache was rapidly becoming a sharp, stabbing pain. 

"Carter's right, Kinch. You should be restin'," added Newkirk, leaning against a nearby bunk.

"I've rested enough." Kinch brushed past Carter and moved towards the tunnel's secret entrance, only to have Newkirk step in his way. His eyes narrowed with anger. "Move, Newkirk. I've got work to do." The corporal did not budge. "What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

"I'm keepin' you from 'urtin' yourself more." Newkirk said resolutely, standing firm. "I'm not lettin' ya go down into the tunnel." His rigid expression softened slightly as he continued. "There's nothin' you can do, mate. The radio's dead."

__

No! He cried inside, clenching his jaw to keep the word from escaping his tight lips. "I can fix it. You know I can. Now, get out of the way."

Newkirk shook his head. "No, you can't, not this time. Some of the radio is melted, as well as blown. I pulled seven chunks out of your 'and alone, not to mention all of the pieces I picked out of the tunnel wall."

"I have spare parts. I can fix it," he insisted, refusing to believe the radio was beyond repair. _I have to fix it. I've got to radio London about Captain Wilson – now!_

"Spare parts won't be enough, Kinch. We need a whole new radio. Nothin' you do can resurrect the old one." Newkirk sighed. "I'm sorry, Kinch." He laid a hand on the tall sergeant's shoulder.

Kinch felt his legs start to crumble beneath him and collapsed onto the bunk he had just left. "No," he moaned, "not now." He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall of the barracks. _Why? _he asked himself. _Why can't we get a break? Why can't something go right for a change?_ "Oh, god. What else can go wrong?" he groaned. 

At that exact moment, a terrified scream sounded from the other end of the barracks, making the hair literally stand up on the back of Kinch's neck. Carter helped Kinch as he struggled to his feet and they rushed towards the Colonel's quarters right behind Newkirk.

Newkirk flung open the door, allowing Kinch to see what was going on inside the room. He moaned again, this time from what he saw. LeBeau stood next to the lower bunk, leaning over, trying to restrain the thrashing man beneath him. Eyes wide with fear, the small corporal twisted around for a second, somehow having heard the door bang open against the wall over the cries and moans coming from the Colonel.

"He was quiet until just a moment ago! I do not know what happened, but I can not get him to calm down!" The Frenchman shouted desperately before turning back to the writhing figure on the bunk. He cautiously grasped Hogan's flailing right arm by the wrist, being careful not to touch the bandages covering the horrible burn on his forearm. Hogan screamed again at the touch and jerked away, fighting frantically to free himself from the perceived threat. 

"Carter, go help LeBeau, but be careful!" Kinch ordered, shaking his arm loose from Carter's grip. At the same time, he turned to Newkirk. "Newkirk, I need you to give him the morphine. I can't…" He gestured helplessly towards his own bandaged right hand. "There's no way I can give him the shot with my hand like this. You have to do it."

Newkirk glanced at Kinch, fear evident in his wide blue eyes. "I - I don't know if I can - " he began to stutter. 

Kinchloe stepped closer to the corporal, trying to ignore the painful sounds coming from just a few feet away. "Yes, you can, Peter. You can do this. After all, you just gave me a shot a couple of hours ago, right? This isn't all that different. You just have to work a little more," he said reassuringly, keeping his voice low, tinged with faith and conviction.

Swallowing, Newkirk nodded and quickly moved towards the Colonel's desk to get the syringe and vial of morphine. Kinch watched him, confident that he could perform the task he'd ordered. The tall sergeant stepped forward to join his men at Hogan's side…

Suddenly, a voice came out of nowhere. "What do you think you are doing?! Stop that at once!"

Kinch whirled around towards the voice and froze, stunned to see Lieutenant O'Shea standing in the open doorway, his young face filled with fury and his green eyes wide with anger. 


	9. You Have To Trust Me!

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: All characters belong to whoever owns the rights to Hogan's Heroes. However, I do claim O'Shea and Wilson as my very own. I've gotta have something, don't I?

Author's Notes: Wow. I'm back. I'm sure you all thought I'd dropped off the earth or something like that. I sincerely apologize for leaving you hanging for so long, and I'd go into exactly why that happened, but there's not enough room and I really want to get this uploaded sometime today. 

Thank you to everyone who left a review on the last chapter, and special thanks to Kits, Emma K., Shandy M., Diane M., Barb M., and marylinusca for sending me personal emails. Your messages meant so much to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you! (I just can't say that enough.) 

Please, take a second to leave a review or feel free to email me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. I love to get emails from readers!

One last thing (if you're still reading this, I apologize again), this first scene was supposed to go in the last chapter, but I didn't want to disrupt the flow from Kinch's point of view, so I decided to put it in this one. Hopefully, this won't confuse anyone, but I just had to include it here. 

Chapter Nine – You Have to Trust Me!

******************************* 

Three hours earlier…

Daniel O'Shea sat outside of Barracks Two on a short stool, legs stretched out in front of him, heals in the thick, brown mud that covered every inch of the compound - an unfortunate aftereffect of the melted snow. It gave the camp a damp, dreary look that fit in perfectly with the barbed wire fences, the watchtowers, and the camp guards. The more he examined the camp, the more depressed he became. But when he looked up at the sky or closed his eyes…well, things were better.

He gazed up at the sky, a deep blue expanse filled with puffy white clouds. It was a beautiful spring day. The weather was just right - not too cold and not too hot. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the building, enjoying the feel of the sun warming his skin and the gentle breeze drifting through the compound, listening to the other men playing volleyball and soccer games or just talking. If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost imagine that he was back home. 

Almost.

A cloud covered the sun, cutting off his warmth and casting a cold shadow over the camp, causing him to shiver slightly. He wrapped his arms around himself, more for comfort than for the warmth it would provide. There was no way he was going inside yet. Today was the first day Captain Wilson had allowed him outside the barracks, and he was determined to stay out as long as possible. He hated being stuck indoors. It reminded him of all the time he'd been - 

His expressive green eyes snapped open as he viciously cut off the thought. 

Turning his thoughts to safer things, he tried once again to sort out exactly what had happened to him three days ago. He remembered limping around the compound, going from building to building, inspecting the entire complex for curiosity's sake. Then, he was relatively sure that he'd gotten tired and sat down against a building. The rest of his memory was composed of brief images and feelings - bone-chilling cold, the sight of white snowflakes swirling around him, lethargy, the ground turning white, numbness, and then…warmth, peace. 

__

If Will hadn't found me when he did, I'd be dead right now. 

The thing was, that thought didn't bother him as much as it should have. No, he didn't really _want_ to die – well, he didn't actively seek it anyway. He hadn't intended on dying when he'd started off on his jaunt around the camp that day, but…it was impossible to forget the feeling of peace that had surrounded him, the warmth that had filled him. For one brief second, everything had felt right with the world, and he'd been able to forget all that had happened to him.

He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of the morbid thoughts. Slowly getting to his feet, he moved towards the barracks door to fetch the blanket from his bunk. The sun had yet to come back out, causing him to grow cold, but he was still unwilling to go back indoors permanently. 

Opening the door, he limped inside, blinking so his eyes could adjust to the dim interior and then making his way to his bunk a few feet away. He grabbed the blanket, turning back around to leave, when something caught his eye. Actually, it was someone, not a something.

At the very end of the barracks lay the black sergeant he had seen at roll call his second day in camp, and not a single time since. The man lay motionless, covered with a couple of dark blankets, so the white bandage that swathed his right hand stood out like a white dove among crows. _What happened? _he couldn't help from wondering. Concerned at seeing no one with the injured man, and, admittedly curious, he moved to check on him.

"Lieutenant?"

He started and spun around as quickly as possible (which wasn't really all that quickly because of his leg) to see where the voice had come from. The British corporal, Newkirk, stood right beside the mysterious door at the other end of the barracks, a slight frown upon his face. Danny sighed inwardly, chiding himself for becoming so absorbed in his thoughts that he had neglected to hear the door opening just a couple dozen feet away. 

"Can I 'elp you with anythin', sir?" 

The words were courteous, though they sounded stilted and forced. The corporal didn't seem to be pleased about his appearance. O'Shea warred briefly with himself whether to stay or go, but in the end his curiosity came out on top. "Yes. What happened to this man?" He gestured towards the man in the corner.

"Sergeant Kinchloe?" replied Newkirk, shifting his eyes uneasily between the sleeping man and O'Shea.

__

Ah, so the mystery man has a name. "Yes."

"Oh, just an accident, sir. 'E burned 'is 'and on the stove, that's all."

Danny nodded. "When did this happen?"

"Not that long ago. Thirty minutes or so." 

The lieutenant glanced sympathetically at the injured man, then back at the corporal. "Keep a close eye on him," he ordered softly. "Burns can be tricky." He was caught between wanting to help the sergeant by examining the wound himself and just giving advice. But if he did either, the corporal might become curious and want to know where he had learned so much about burns. How could he answer that without revealing more about himself and his past? _No, I'd better just leave him alone. If he seems to be feeling worse by evening roll call, I'll take a look, but not until then,_ he finally decided. 

Newkirk's face relaxed a bit, and his eyes seemed to thaw, loosing some of their iciness. "Don't worry, sir. I'll look after 'im."

"Good." He thought for a second. "Is Sergeant Kinchloe assigned to this barracks, Corporal? I've never seen him around." O'Shea watched as the Englishman swallowed, the Adam's apple in his neck bobbing visibly.

"Well, sir, that's a tricky question. You'd have to talk to the Kommandant about that."

O'Shea narrowed his eyes, frowning. "This wouldn't have anything to do with his being a Negro does it, Newkirk? Because if it does – " He cut off his words abruptly. _What can I do, really? I'd have to take the matter up with the Senior POW, but as far as I know, this camp doesn't even have one! And the Germans as a whole see the blacks as inferior, which means talking to the Kommandant wouldn't help, either._ He reluctantly let the matter go. "Never mind, Corporal." He turned to leave, his shoulders bowed by the heavy realization of how little he could truly help.

"Lieutenant O'Shea?" Newkirk called just as he reached the barrack's door.

"Yes?" He paused, twisting slightly to look at the Englishman, his hand still on the rusty doorknob. 

Newkirk's blue eyes were sharp and clear, piercing with intense emotions. "Sir, it's not because of segregation that 'e's not…well…there's more to it than that. Sergeant Kinchloe is a good soldier and an even better man. We'd never do anything like that to 'im. I don't know 'ow things were run in your previous camp, sir, but they don't work like that at Stalag 13. Everyone 'ere is treated just the same…'cept for officers, of course," he added with a slight smile.

O'Shea nodded, relieved that whatever the deal was, it wasn't a racial problem. _We have enough people to fight without fighting amongst ourselves. _"That's good to hear, corporal," he said softly and then left the building, stepping out into the bright sunshine. _So much for needing the blanket. Oh, well._

Outside, he settled once again on his stool and wrapped the thin blanket around his shoulders, leaning wearily back against the wall of the barracks. Eyes closed, his thoughts turned to the injured sergeant inside. Going back over the brief conversation he'd had with the corporal, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that swelled within his chest. _It just doesn't add up. We've been here for four and a half days already, and I've only seen that sergeant once before. Where has he been all this time? I've never seen him out in the exercise yard other than that first morning, never seen him at mealtimes getting his food. Shoot, for that matter, I've never even seen him enter or leave the barracks! And that corporal seemed, well…nervous. But why should he feel nervous about a burned hand? It's not as if that's never happened before – accidents do happen, even in a POW camp._ _No, it doesn't make sense_. 

He intended to stay awake and give the matter more thought, but the day was so pleasant and the sun so warm upon his chilled body that before he realized what was happening, he was fast asleep. 

*************************

A muffled scream jolted him awake, his body reacting by automatically sending him to his feet before his foggy mind could fully comprehend what he'd just heard. For a few seconds, he stood there just staring at the door, wondering who or what could have caused such a terrible sound. Then, it clicked. 

The injured sergeant. Something must have happened to his hand. Without another thought, he rushed through the barracks door, prepared to help the soldier in any way he could, regardless of the uncomfortable questions that might arise about his knowledge. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he turned towards the far end of the barracks and the sergeant…

But the bunk was empty.

He blinked, confused. _What…where is he? _He quickly glanced around at the rest of the bunks, even at the floor, wondering how far a man in so much pain could have gotten in so little time. _I know I heard him. _He shook his head slowly, frowning, and then turned back towards the door to leave.

Another scream pierced the stillness of the room, louder and closer than the last one, so filled with terror and pain that it was all he could do to remain on his feet, his mind flooding with terrifying memories – images, feelings, and sounds that nearly overwhelmed him, and sent him staggering to the nearest bunk for support. 

For a moment, his heart nearly stopped beating, the memory of other tortured screams blurring the lines between past and present until both became one. His hip ached fiercely as shooting pains lanced down his leg, up his spine and into his head. His vision began to tunnel, the edges turning a misty white-gray, as his breathing morphed into laborious gasps for air with lungs that refused to work. He clung desperately to the bunk, his fingers digging into the rough wood, his whole body shaking and threatening to collapse into a shivering heap on the floor. 

In a small corner of his frantic, chaotic mind, he knew he was having a panic attack and that he was hyperventilating. He knew that at any minute he might collapse or something even worse, and for the very first time, he was angry. No, not just angry – furious. The intense emotion flowed through him, bringing with it an energy that seared through his paralyzed body, and he latched onto it, feeding the flames more and more until he finally broke free and found himself hanging onto the bunk in the middle of Barracks Two.

He stared at the door, anger pushing him forward, fear holding him back. He didn't know what he would face if he opened the door, what situation he might become involved in. A part of him wanted nothing more than to curl up and block out the sounds of pain coming from within the other room, but the other fury-filled part could not – would not – ignore it. _That sergeant needs me,_ O'Shea thought to himself, _and I refuse to let my weakness – my failures – keep me from doing anything about it. I have to help him._

Pulling the remnants of his tattered confidence together, he released his death-hold on the bunk and moved the few remaining feet to the door, grasping the doorknob and turning it with a shaking hand.

Upon entering the room, he noticed two things. First, Carter and the Frenchman, LeBeau, were trying to restrain a struggling man on the lower bunk. 

Second, the struggling man was not Sergeant Kinchloe.

He froze for a second in the open doorway, too shocked by the unexpected sight to speak… until he heard the man scream again. Galvanized into action by the audible anguish and suffering in the man's voice, he stepped inside confidently. "What do you think you're doing?!" he demanded in an unwavering voice. "Stop that at once!"

A sudden movement off to his left caught his eye, and he turned to face the threat, only to find himself facing Corporal Newkirk, and, of all people, Sergeant Kinchloe, staring back at him with stunned expressions. They stood next to a small wooden desk where Newkirk was just removing a needle from a small glass bottle filled with clear liquid. At the sight of the tall sergeant, he mentally stumbled. All of his energy has been focused on helping the injured black man, and now…

__

What is going on here? he wondered, glancing quickly towards the bed, shifting his body a bit to gain a better view of the writhing figure. _Who is he? And what are they doing to him?_ He couldn't see anything at first, only heard the tortured moans and cries as the men attempted (with little success) to control him. Finally, the small Frenchmandodged to avoid a flailing arm, and Danny got a brief glimpse of the man's face – or rather, what could be seen under the mass of bandages and thick, dark beard. It was the eye that told him all he needed to know.

The Englishman took a step towards him. "Carter, get 'im out of 'ere! We don't 'ave time for this right now!"

O'Shea ignored his angry words and limped over to the black tech sergeant by the desk. Although he knew and trusted Carter the most of those present, for some strange reason he was drawn to Sergeant Kinchloe. The man exuded a calm, quiet competence despite the utter chaos in the room, a confidence only someone used to commanding others can possess. "Sergeant Kinchloe?"

The tall man blinked once, the small action the only indication of surprise on his otherwise impenetrable face. "Yes," he said softly. 

Danny saw Newkirk shift nervously, visibly torn between backing up his superior and helping his mates with the man on the bunk. The sound of fist meeting flesh and Carter yelping in pain made them all jump and abruptly ended his indecision. The lieutenant heard him mutter something under his breath as he hurried over to the bunk.

His attention focused back on Kinchloe. "Is that morphine?" O'Shea gestured with his left hand towards the glass bottle on the middle of the table. He thought it was, but he wanted to be certain. _It might be some other medication, but… _

"Yes," came the reply. 

"Don't give it to him."

"What?!" Newkirk interrupted, his voice filled with disbelief. "Are ya ruddy crazy? The man's out of 'is mind with pain!" He grabbed at the flying fist that nearly took off his head, but missed. "Ya see?! Just look at 'im!"

"Yes, I see. He is out of his mind, but not with pain – with drugs. He's having nightmares and those drugs only make them worse! Don't give him that shot!"

Kinchloe stared him down, brown eyes boring into green. "Are you a doctor?"

Now it was Danny's turn to shift nervously. "No."

"A corpsman?"

"No."

"A psychologist? Do you have any medical experience?"

"No," he said tightly, clenching his fists. By now, he was sweating, the cold moisture beading on his forehead, turning his copper hair a dark reddish-brown. He knew where this was going and dreaded it. 

"Kinch, enough with the twenty questions! Toss 'im out!" Newkirk stood up and stepped forward, blue eyes snapping dangerously.

"No, wait just a minute, Newkirk." Kinchloe held up his right hand in the man's direction to stop him and then flinched, drawing in a sharp breath as the slight movement pulled on his burned hand. "No!" he said hoarsely, as Newkirk reached out to steady him. The two men's eyes met and held briefly, and then slowly, reluctantly, Newkirk nodded. After a brief pause, the tech sergeant moved closer to O'Shea. "Then why did you say that? Why should we listen to you? For that matter, why should we even trust you? For all we know, you could be some German plant here to finish him off!" 

He made one last, desperate attempt to deflect the question without revealing any more information but knew he was grasping at thin air. _God, please,_ he begged,_ let this satisfy him. _"Look. I just know, all right?" 

"No," the other man replied decisively, stepping still closer, a few inches from his face. "It's not all right. How – do – you – know?"

"Because – " O'Shea's voice caught, and he glanced over at the man on the bed, now held firmly in place, the moans tearing huge chunks of his carefully reconstructed walls down, revealing his fragile spirit. "Because I've been in his place," he whispered shakily, taking a few steps away and closing his eyes in shame.

***************************

"What?" Carter was the first of the stunned men who regained his voice. "You mean – you've been – "

"It was the Gestapo, right?" came O'Shea's emotionless voice, his face still turned slightly away. 

Kinch examined the pale, young man and only then saw how tightly he'd been clenching his fists, the white knuckles close to bursting through the skin. He wasn't completely sure he believed the Lieutenant – _after all, what are the chances? _– until O'Shea looked up, his green eyes haunted and filled with a terrible knowledge. Kinch's mother had once said that 'the eyes were a window to the soul,' something he still firmly believed in, even after all he'd seen and been through. Looking into O'Shea's eyes, he'd just seen a tortured soul so much like the Colonel's that it gave him chills. And yet, while it frightened him, it also gave him a small, tiny feeling of hope. For if this Lieutenant could make it through, then so could Colonel Hogan. _I wonder…_he began mentally, but was interrupted as O'Shea spoke again.

"Listen. Newkirk is right. We don't have time for this right now. I know that I just arrived, and you don't know or trust me. I'd tell you to take it up with Captain Wilson, but you wouldn't trust him any more than you would me, and plus, there's not enough time. I can't make you change your minds." The copper headed young man paused for a second, and then shook his head, speaking with a voice of absolute conviction. "But I can help him. I know what he's going through, what he's thinking and feeling. He needs me – and so do you. You have to trust me!" 

The heavy silence echoed throughout the small room, engulfing the men as they glanced uncertainly at each other. LeBeau, Newkirk, and Carter all exchanged long looks, and then turned as one to Kinch, who remained in place by the desk, staring at O'Shea. His outwardly calm appearance belied his inner turmoil and the thoughts racing through his mind. 

__

Could this be the person that London promised us? The "new cub" that was to arrive? he wondered, leaning weakly against the solid, wooden desk as his legs grew suddenly unsteady. _Could it have been O'Shea and not Wilson as Carter tried so hard to convince us all? _Part of the idea made sense, but not all of it. There were too many unanswered questions, too many loose ends. _If London sent him, why didn't he try to contact us earlier?_ It was the same question he had asked before when they had considered Wilson._ He's been in camp for five days. I don't understand why he would have waited._

He mentally sighed, feeling frustrated and uncertain. He cast a fleeting look at Colonel Hogan, his closest friend and commanding officer, lying on the bed, still struggling weakly against Carter and LeBeau, seeing his emaciated, bandaged form clearer than he had for days. _If we do nothing, he'll die, _he admitted, despising himself for the hopeless thought, but unable to hide from the truth any longer. _Is there really anything to loose?_

As he turned back to O'Shea, he was amazed by the grim, determined look on his youthful face. _He looks like he's going into battle. I guess, in some ways, he is._ "All right, Lieutenant," he agreed quietly. "What should we do?" 

TBC…


	10. Things Said and Left Unsaid

Facing the Shadows

By Adalanta

Disclaimer: Everyone but O'Shea and Wilson belong to Bing Crosby Productions (but I have no clue who actually owns that).

Author's Note: This is going to be very brief because I want to get this posted today. Sorry it took so long. I got about three-quarters of the way through, and then I just couldn't seem to find the correct words. But finally, here it is. I'd like to say a special thanks to Marylinusca and Kits for their entertaining emails. You both really brightened my days! Also, thank you to Lisa C. for your glowing note. I have to admit that it made me blush. The stories that you mentioned are my favorite ones at fanfiction.net. I am truly honored to be counted among them. 

Please, take a second to tell me what you think by leaving me a review or by emailing me personally at adalanta14@yahoo.com. You've opinion is greatly appreciated!

*****************************************

Chapter Ten – Things Said and Left Unsaid

Sergeant James Ivan Kinchloe paced nervously near the doorway of the Senior POW's quarters, relieved beyond measure that Colonel Hogan had finally stopped struggling and seemed to have fallen into a deep – and hopefully dreamless – sleep, thanks mainly to the incredible effort and baffling knowledge of one person – Lieutenant Daniel O'Shea. While it was true that Carter, Newkirk, LeBeau, and himself had assisted for the last hour, without Lieutenant O'Shea the Colonel would now be lying on his bunk in a morphine induced slumber instead of a drugless, healing sleep.

It hadn't been easy to get Colonel Hogan to settle down, but the actual method used was mind-bogglingly simple. When the earnest Lieutenant had asked them to get a bucket of cold water and some clean rags, Kinch had assumed it would be the first in a series of orders, but when O'Shea had remained silent, the black tech sergeant had become filled with doubt. _How is water going to help anything?_ he remembered thinking to himself. He'd drawn the young man slightly away from the others and started to protest, but had gotten no more than five words out before O'Shea had fixed him with those haunting green eyes, and the words had died stillborn in his throat.

During the next hour, O'Shea had worked a miracle simply by continually sponging off the right side of Colonel Hogan's face. At first, he'd needed LeBeau and Carter to help hold him still, but then, ever so slowly, Hogan's struggles had abated. He'd remained restless for a time, mumbling incoherently, causing Kinch's ironclad stomach to knot for fear of what might be said. By the time that phase was over, he could feel the sweat dripping off his face and knew by the concerned glances from his men that they saw it, too. Unable to sit by any longer, he'd stood up and begun to pace. Now, out of curiosity, he checked his watch and was surprised to find that he'd been pacing nonstop for the last fifteen minutes. _They say 'time goes fast when you're having fun,' but this is about as far away from fun as possible._

"Sergeant Kinchloe?"

The quiet, weary voice interrupted his thoughts, and, reluctantly, he paused and turned his attention to the speaker, waiting wordlessly for him to continue.

Lieutenant O'Shea slowly sat back in his chair, cautiously straightening up from the crouch he'd maintained for the last hour. "I've done all I can for him for now, Sergeant. He's finally sleeping, which is what he needs more than anything."

Kinch nodded, although he could thing of several things right off the top of his head that he thought his friend desperately needed in addition to sleep. He shoved those thoughts aside to concentrate on the present. "How long do you think he'll sleep?" he asked, mind already jumping ahead to the next gut wrenching, nightmarish episode.

O'Shea grimaced and raked a hand through his red hair. "I don't know. It depends how strong the nightmares – his memories – are. I'm hoping he'll get at least a couple of hours, but…" His voice trailed off, and he shrugged. "We'll just have to wait and see."

"All right, sir." He shifted his gaze to the other three men in the room. "I'll take the first four hour watch, then Newkirk. Carter, you'll follow him, and, Louie, you're last. Everyone got it?" he asked, wrapping up the instructions.

Silence met his ears. It wasn't what he had expected to hear. 

"Uhhh, Kinch?" Carter spoke up hesitantly. "Why don't you let Newkirk take the first shift?"

"What?" Kinchloe narrowed his eyes in confusion. "Why would I do that, Carter? I just made the assignments. Why should I change them?"

"Because, well, um…" the young man stammered nervously. "You see, we don't…uh, that is, you…" Carter jumped, startled, as Newkirk whipped off his blue cap and smacked him on the shoulder. "All right, all right! Louie, could you…?"

The small Frenchman quickly agreed, much to Kinch's amusement. _Andrew is the greatest with explosives, but when he gets flustered, he's lucky if he gets a single sentence out in five minutes' time._

"Kinch, can we…?" LeBeau waved his hand at the other side of the small room, throwing a quick glance at the Lieutenant who remained by the Colonel's side, obviously not wanting the officer to hear their conversation. 

He nodded, and they stepped a few feet away. "What is it, Louie?" he asked quietly, concern filling him at the troubled expression that looked up at him. "Do you need something?"

"Yes," his friend said evenly. "I need for you to take a rest."

__

I can't believe this, he thought, annoyed by his friend's concern. "If this is about my hand, LeBeau, I'm fine. It's no excuse to abandon my post."

"This is about your hand partly, yes," the smaller man admitted, shrugging slightly, "but, more importantly, it is about you. You need to rest – "

Kinchloe broke in before LeBeau could really get started. "I told you, I'm fine!" The words came out a little louder and with more force than he'd intended, drawing worried looks from Carter and Newkirk and a puzzled one from O'Shea. "Why do you have to fuss so? If I can take care of the Colonel, then I think I can take care of myself!" Immediately, he felt guilty about his outburst and at the hurt look that marred his friend's expressive face. _Great,_ he thought sarcastically, _now that they know I'm angry, they'll never believe me._ "Listen, Louie – "

"Non, mon cher ami, you listen! You have been by le Colonél's bedside constantly ever since he was returned to us." LeBeau said heatedly, dark eyes glaring defiantly. "I can count on my right hand alone the number of times you have left this room since he was brought back to the barracks. You have eaten little and slept even less! You begin to resemble le Colonél! Do you not see how thin you have become? Why do you insist on treating yourself this way?"

Shaking his head dazedly, the sergeant tried to explain his actions to the little tornado formerly known as LeBeau. "I…I'm the Colonel's second. It's my job to see to his health and welfare. It's…my duty," he finished helplessly, reluctant to say any more for fear of what might slip out unintentionally. 

"Your duty?" LeBeau stared straight at him, a gaze that seemed to peer into his very soul. "Why is this your duty? Do we not all work for le Colonél? Why do you insist on baring this responsibility alone? Colonél Hogan is our commander. We have always been a team, mon ami, in all that we have done. Why are you now pulling away? Do you not trust us with le Colonél's well-being?"

The wounded look on the French corporal's face had now extended into his eyes, making Kinchloe feel even worse. "Of – of course, I trust you, Louie!" he reassured him loudly. "How can you say that?! I trust you with my very life!"

The room was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, LeBeau nodded, appearing to accept the comment as the truth. Finally, he spoke clearly and quietly, holding Kinch's gaze the entire time. "Then if you trust me, go out into the other room and take some rest."

Trapped. There was no other word for it. He was trapped, so expertly caught that there was no way to maneuver an escape. If he protested in any way, it would be a slap in LeBeau's face, impugning his honor. If he agreed, he would be admitting that he couldn't handle the tremendous strain that he'd been under for the last several weeks. It was a hard decision to make, but in the end, he chose to wound his own pride rather than LeBeau's. His was the easier of the two to mend. And plus, he didn't want to be eating burned meals for the next week, an unfortunate side effect resulting from the preoccupation that occurred the last time the Frenchman had considered himself dishonored.

"All right, Louie," he sighed. "You win. I'll go rest." He started to leave, but then stopped and retraced his steps, coming to rest by the young officer still sitting by the bed. "But I'll not be the only one leaving. Lieutenant?" He gestured to the door, remembering to use his left hand this time and not his damaged right one.

O'Shea looked up at him with eyes that were slightly unfocused, a lost expression upon his face. "Yes?" he said absently.

__

Oh, man, he thought, worried about the officer's foggy response. _This kid's about ready to collapse. I forgot that today was his first day out of bed. _He heaved an inward sigh. _He needs to get to his bunk fast. _"Will you join me in the main room, Lieutenant O'Shea? I'd like to speak with you, if you don't mind."

The young man blinked a couple of time, then replied, "Of course, sergeant." 

The airman found it impossible to miss the way he used the bunk frame to pull himself up from his chair and onto his feet. The Lieutenant let go of the frame, took one step…and crumbled.

Kinch lunged forward and grabbed for him with his left hand just as Carter moved in on his right. Between them both, it would be an easy catch. And it should have been. 

But it wasn't.

The Lieutenant flinched violently and shied away from their outstretched hands, twisting his body awkwardly in midair to avoid any contact. Kinch did manage to grasp his left arm and control his fall a bit, guiding him down to a sitting position on the floor instead of landing hard on his side. He released his hold on the arm immediately when the young man tried to pull loose.

For a long moment, no one spoke, too stunned by the sight of the crumpled officer on the ground bent over and clutching his right leg in agony, his entire body trembling. The only sound in the room was his laborious gasps for air, an excruciating thing to hear.

"Lieutenant?" It was Carter who broke the heavy silence, kneeling down by his side on the floor. "Can I help you, sir?"

O'Shea shook his head vehemently, though it took him a few seconds to reply, his voice rasping, "Just…just give me…a minute, Carter." 

When the young officer raised his head a couple of minutes later, Kinchloe was horrified by the grayness of his complexion. _He looks worse than he did when Captain Wilson brought him in out of the snow, and he was half dead! _ It was not a comforting thought. "What happened, sir?" he questioned quietly, glancing over to where LeBeau and Newkirk stood uneasily, not sure of what to do.

"My hip went out on me, sergeant." The words were nearly inaudible with weariness, but the hardest thing to hear was the tone of acceptance that emerged as he continued a bit louder. "It happens."

"Can you walk, Lieutenant?" He nearly offered his hand to help him up but remembered what'd happened just a few minutes earlier and withdrew it, shaking his head at Carter's questioning look.

Without answering, the Lieutenant used the bunk frame to climb to his feet, slowly increasing the weight on his weak leg. At one point, it looked like he was about to collapse again as his eyes slammed shut and his face tightened in pain, but he continued the slow procedure until he was at last standing on both feet. He took a deep, shaky breath and lifted his hand from the bunk. Finally, he nodded. "It seems that I can, Sergeant Kinchloe." With that, he began to make his way out of the room, his limp more pronounced than ever, clearly exhausted, yet managing to hold his head up. 

It seemed to Kinch that whatever had just happened had obviously occurred before, and, while it appeared to be a setback, it was by no means viewed as a defeat. Step by grueling step, he watched the Lieutenant make the strenuous journey out of the small room and into the main barracks. He seriously doubted that the young man would make it, but soon there he was, standing beside his bunk. Kinch waited for him to crawl in, but the pale man did not move, just stared at the bunk frame with trepidation. With a start, he remembered that O'Shea' bunk was the top one, and he was trying to figure out a way to climb up with his bad hip. Kinch watched in silence, hesitant to interfere, but was forced to when he saw the Lieutenant's slight body sway before his eyes.

"Captain Wilson sleeps below you, doesn't he, sir?" 

O'Shea blinked and snapped his head towards the black man, seemingly surprised to see him standing there watching. It took a second for the question to register. "Yes, he does."

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind if you borrowed his bunk for a little while, Lieutenant," he offered kindly, wanting nothing more than to be able to help the exhausted man onto the bed, but knowing that would be improper due to the difference in rank. The young man hesitated, apparently still unconvinced. _Okay, then I'll just have to push a little harder. _ "If you want, sir, I can try to find the Captain outside and ask him for you." 

"No! Don't do that. He'd…he'd just…" He shook his head. "No. He won't mind." With that decided, he crawled painfully onto the bunk and lay down.

Relieved that the injured Lieutenant was finally settled, Kinch let his own weariness catch up with him and moved towards his own bunk several feet away. He was halfway there when he heard O'Shea's voice.

"Sergeant Kinchloe?" 

"Yes, sir?" He turned his head to look at the young man, and found him studiously examining the bottom of the bunk above him, devoid of expression. "Your men care for you and respect you a great deal, Sergeant. There aren't many people who can inspire such intense devotion in others. You should be proud of that…and of yourself. Don't ever forget that." That said, his eyelids fluttered closed, hiding his green eyes from the puzzled sergeant.

__

Where did that come from? he wondered, completing the short walk to his own bunk, and stretched out on it, laying his bandaged right hand gingerly by his side. Shutting his eyes, he quickly drifted to sleep, too drained to stay awake a moment longer.

**************************

Captain Campbell Wilson opened the wooden door of the recreation hut filled with high spirits, having just spent the last several hours inside talking and becoming familiar with some of the other airmen at his new Stalag. His happiness lasted approximately three seconds, which is all the time it took for him to move off of the wooden step and down into the thick, brown mud that covered the entire prison ground. Grumbling mentally, he slopped his way through the disgusting, clinging muck that threatened to hold his feet hostage and cruelly demand his shoes for ransom. However, Wilson refused to give in and determinedly crossed the yard, making his way slowly but surely to Barracks Two.

A few yards away, he noted that Lieutenant O'Shea seemed to have deserted his stool, a fact that left him slightly unsettled, and then, when he drew even closer and spied the blanket forlornly abandoned in the mud, he feared that something might have happened to his friend. He bolted for the door, his heart pounding crazily in his chest, his mind whirling with possible scenarios, each one worse than the one previous. Stepping into the barracks, he was surprised to find O'Shea lying down on his own lower bunk.

"Danny?" he called, moving towards his friend and stretching out a hand that hovered uncertainly over his shoulder. At that moment, though, the younger man shifted in his sleep, turning his gray face in Wilson's direction. Wilson gapped at his friend's frightening pallor. _What the – ? What on earth happened to him?_ Suddenly feeling as if he was being watched, the black-haired Captain twisted around to find the black tech sergeant – _Kinchloe, was it?_ – sitting on one of the bunks at the other end of the room. "What happened to him?" he demanded, fear and concern making his voice harsh. "Did he have a relapse?"

The tall man stood and moved towards the bunk across from him, shaking his head as he went. "No. Well, not from anything that I know of," he amended, reaching his seat and sitting down.

Wilson felt his heart begin to slow a bit from the rapid staccato it had been only seconds before. "All right. Then, what did happen?"

"He stood up to walk but collapsed after taking only one step. When I asked, he said that his hip went out on him."

"Oh, no," Wilson moaned, weakly lowering himself down into the closest bunk and closing his eyes. _Everything that could possibly go wrong has. What is it about this place? Is it jinxed?_ He took a deep breath. "Did he try to walk afterwards?" he asked, his tone mild. The innocuous question was more important than he let on. As long as Danny had tried to get back on his feet, he should be okay. If he didn't…Wilson didn't even want to think about that possibility.

"Yes."

__

Thank God, he uttered silently, rubbing his handsome face with both hands. When he looked up, he saw that the sergeant was looking at him curiously, his dark head tilted slightly to the right. Realizing that he hadn't yet replied, he answered simply, "Good."

"Sir," Kinchloe spoke after a short period of silence. "Has this happened before?"

"Yes," he dragged the word out, "but not for several months. His hip was…injured…over a year ago, after his plane was shot down. He's had problems with it ever since. I'm sure you've noticed his limp."

The other man nodded, although he did not appear surprised. Wilson was confused at first as to how he could have known, but then it came to him…Carter_._ It made sense. Carter was the only person (other than himself) that O'Shea had really spoken with. "You've been talking to Sergeant Carter, haven't you, Sergeant Kinchloe?" The sentence was more a statement than a question, even though he had phrased it as such.

The black man smiled faintly and nodded. "I admit I have, sir. I hope you don't mind, but I was concerned for the Lieutenant. Is there nothing that can be done to help him?"

"No, the damage done to his hip socket was quite severe. It's a miracle that he was ever able to walk again." _And that he lived,_ he added mentally, remembering in a flash the fight he'd had keeping the poor kid alive and then helping him struggle to relearn how to walk. 

"That's too bad, sir."

Wilson cleared his throat and pushed the memories aside. "Yes, it is. Thank you for your concern, Sergeant." The conversation slacked off once more, each man ostensibly busy with his own thoughts. He glanced over at Sergeant Kinchloe who appeared to be wrestling with something, his face studiously blank, his dark, intelligent eyes focused inwards.

Finally, the sergeant appeared to make up his mind. "Captain Wilson…why are you here?"

"What?" he frowned.

"Why are you here?" 

"I don't understand what you mean," Wilson said, completely baffled. "How was I captured? My B-17 was shot down over northern Germany, and the Krauts grabbed me and two other men from my crew as soon as we hit the ground."

Kinchloe shook his head and leaned forward on the bunk. "No. Why are you here?"

He paused to consider the question, trying to determine what information the other man was looking for. "At Stalag 13?" he asked to clarify the question.

"Yes, sir."

Wilson shrugged as he quietly confessed, "Honestly…I don't know."

"You don't know," the sergeant repeated dully, sighing heavily as he slid off his Army issue cap and placed it carefully by his side on the bunk.

__

He looks…disappointed, Wilson thought, watching the man with his dark blue eyes. _What did he want – no, expect – me to say? He's not making any sense!_ The simmering frustration and helplessness just below the surface suddenly burst in his chest just like it had his first night in camp after O'Shea's vicious nightmare. "Sergeant, I don't know what you want to hear. I have no clue why we were transferred. Neither of us has ever tried to escape, never made any trouble – not like the other men who came with us from Stalag 8. But Kommandant Schweigert chose to transfer us, and, unfortunately, he didn't ask our opinion. If it was up to me, I'd have us back there in a heartbeat, but…there's nothing I can do about it. My hands are tied," he ended, his voice filled with defeat, averting his eyes.

"Captain," the older man spoke carefully, "You said 'we' and 'us.' Who did you mean by that? You and Lieutenant O'Shea?"

He glanced up from the ground. "Yes. I wish to God that Schweigert had left us back at Stalag 8. Or," he added as an afterthought, "at least left O'Shea there." _He'd have been okay there with the rest of the men to look out for him, guys who understood him. I would have missed him, but it would have been better for his mental welfare if he'd stayed there._

"Sir…what really happened to Lieutenant O'Shea? He didn't injure his leg in a parachuting accident, did he?"

Wilson's face hardened into granite at the sergeant's skeptical tone, too shocked for a moment by the sudden shift in the conversation to form any words. It took a few seconds for his jumbled thoughts to make sense, and when they finally did, he didn't even try to hide his rage. Unable to attack the one he longed to, he lashed out angrily instead at the only person available, his words sharp and piercing. "Why? Why do you want to know? You have no authority to be asking these questions, no right to be prying into other people's lives! That kid's been through enough, and I will not allow you or any other man to bring up what happened! Some things are better left unsaid, sergeant, buried so deeply that they are never spoken of again!" 

Furious now, the words continued to pour from his mouth, a raging torrent as powerful and overwhelming as water that bursts from a shattered dam. "And speaking of questions…where is your Senior Allied Officer? Each camp is required by law to have a Senior POW. Why haven't I met with him yet? I haven't even seen or heard a single thing about him since I stepped foot into this camp!" He stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to rein in his temper. When he was able to continue, he spoke in an even tone, the perfect officer's voice. "Sergeant, as your commanding officer, I demand to see the senior officer in charge of this camp."

In the thunderous silence that followed, the man across from him went preternaturally still and stared at him, scrutinizing his face, searching his eyes intently for…something. Wilson stared straight back at him, meeting his eyes, refusing to back done on a matter of such importance. Time seemed to stop. He didn't know how long he sat there, staring into that dark intelligent gaze – it might have been a minute, it might have been ten minutes – he couldn't tell. The silence grew longer and heavier until he thought he would be forced to break…

"Fine." The answer came so suddenly that Wilson blinked. "I think it's time that you saw the Colonel. Follow me, Captain." Kinchloe stood up and walked towards the door at the end of the barracks, the one door that Wilson had never seen anyone enter or leave. The black man paused just outside the door, his hand on the doorknob, hesitation written in every line of his lengthy body. Then, in a split second, the hesitation disappeared, and he twisted the knob, pushing the door open and revealing a small room.

When the Captain stepped through the doorway, the first thing he saw was Sergeant Carter jumping to his feet in alarm. "Kinch? What – ?" he stuttered, giving the black man a shocked look.

Kinchloe shook his head and gave a half smile. "It's okay, Carter. I think he needs to know, if only for Lieutenant O'Shea's sake. Why don't you take a break?" he suggested quietly. "I'll let you know when I need you, all right?"

A frown creased Carter's face but he obeyed nevertheless, a fact that puzzled Wilson. _Carter is higher in rank than Kinchloe. Why would he obey an order when he outranks the man who gave it? That doesn't make sense. What is going on here? _His thoughts were abruptly cut off as he finally glanced around at the rest of the room. 

"Oh, my God," Wilson breathed, gazing in horror at the bandaged, motionless figure on the bed. There was only one other time he'd seen someone look like that, so horribly wounded, swathed in bandages. Dread filled his soul at the sight, leaving him feeling physically sick, nausea twisting his stomach into knots and nearly making him vomit his lunch. A part of him wanted to bolt out of the room and head for the nearest latrine, to leave the room and pretend that what he'd just seen didn't exist. 

But he didn't.

Instead, as if in a fog, he found himself actually stumbling forward, moving closer to the bunk to get a better look and then collapsing onto the chair nearby, his legs suddenly unstable, unable to hold his weight. Staring at the sleeping man, a scene from the past materialized before his very eyes. The black hair morphed into red, the dark, thick beard disappeared, the tall, gaunt frame shortened by six inches. He knew that he was looking at some unknown individual, but a part of his mind told him he was seeing Daniel O'Shea, his best friend, instead. "Danny," he whispered, barely able to breathe, his lungs frozen inside his chest. The moment seemed to last forever, going on and on…

And then he blinked. The past dissolved and reality took its place. 

"Captain Wilson." The voice came from behind his left shoulder, causing him to snap his head in that direction, only to find Sergeant Kinchloe watching him intently. 

It took a moment for Wilson to steady himself, his shocked mind racing, trying to find the connection, the reason he was here. He'd demanded to see the SAO and had been led here. He blinked again, the realization hitting him as hard and as abrupt as when his parachute had opened so long ago, stunning him just as badly. _But that means that this man is…_ His wide blue eyes met Kinchloe's gaze. "This…this man is the Senior POW?" he asked, already knowing that what he said was true. The pained look on the tech sergeant's face confirmed it before he could even open his mouth.

The older man nodded his affirmation. "Captain Wilson, this is Colonel Hogan, United States Army Air Corps, Senior POW at Stalag 13."

"Gestapo," Wilson spat out the word like a curse, his left hand unconsciously balling into a fist, wishing for all the world that he could get just one minute with the animals who'd done this, just sixty seconds to show them how it felt to be beaten, tortured, and driven to the brink of sanity. 

"How did you know?" 

His mind was so filled with anger that he answered without really thinking about it. "Because I've seen this before," he seethed through gritted teeth.

"With Lieutenant O'Shea?"

Wilson whipped his dark head up, startled, and stared up at the black man, his shocked expression melting to horror as he made yet another connection. This second revelation hit him even harder than the first, literally knocking the air from his body. _Kinchloe mentioned Danny to Carter. What did he say – 'He needs to know, if only for Lieutenant O'Shea's sake?' And the only reason he would say that would be …_

"Oh, my god," he uttered in a hushed voice, "Oh, god, please tell me he didn't see this. Not this. Not now." He met Kinchloe's gaze, eyes pleading with the other man to tell him that he was wrong, that his imagination was just running wild. 

The sergeant nodded once. 

Will covered his face with two pale, trembling hands and leaned over in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees as his stomach once again revolted. "Oh, no," he whispered shakily. _This can't be happening, it just can't! _He swallowed hard, trying to keep down the bile that was rising thickly in his throat, the acidy taste making his eyes burn. _No wonder he looked so gray and haggard,_ he thought to himself. _He came in, saw this, and had another panic attack. _He closed his eyes in pain at the thought of Danny seeing the Colonel and the terrifying, paralyzing memories that the sight would have dredged up. In all the months that he'd known the Lieutenant, he'd seen him combat the lasting effects of his time with the Gestapo – the physical and mental scars that covered him both inside and out. He'd helped as much as humanly possible, and he knew for certain that Danny would need his help again. _I need to know how bad it was, what exactly happened_, _in order to help Danny when he wakes up. He's going to be a wreck after being confronted with this._ He took a deep breath and raised his head from his hands, ready to ask the hauntingly familiar questions, but before he could say a word, Kinchloe spoke.

"You've seen this before, haven't you?" the man asked softly.

Wilson hesitated briefly before replying. "Yes."

"Was it Lieutenant O'Shea?" 

He shook his head and ran a hand through his thick, black hair in frustration, torn between answering and keeping silent, between helping someone else and keeping an oath to a friend. After a moment of concentration, he decided to compromise. "I'm sorry, sergeant. All I can tell you is that I've seen and dealt with this situation before." 

Glancing over at the injured man, his mind once again flashed to what Danny had looked like when he'd arrived at Stalag 8 – bruised, bloody, and broken, with vacant eyes that stared mindlessly off into space. Wilson hadn't known what to do and had watched and waited helplessly, trying to devise a way to repair the damage inflicted to the young lieutenant. Now, looking up at Sergeant Kinchloe, he recognized the same agonizing helpless look upon his face. _But this time is different_, he said mentally. _I know what to do now – how to handle this. And I can't sit idly by and not do anything to help this man, no matter how hellish this is to see and go through again._

"However," he added, catching the tall man's gaze, "I'm willing to help in whatever way I can." With that said, he solemnly held out his right hand and shook Kinchloe's, steeling himself for what was to come and praying for the strength he'd need to help the two men who needed him most. 


End file.
